Ratatouille: The Challenge
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: My attempt at a sequel to the movie. A Europewide culinary competition is being held, and there are some who will stop at nothing to prevent our heroes from getting there. Finally updated *meep*
1. Enceinte

A new day is dawning over Paris. I blink my eyes open in the pink light suffusing the city, slowly dissipating the grey dawn and stealing over the rooftops. Silhouetted against the luminous sky stands the Eiffel Tower of a thousand shifting faces. In the misty light of dawn it looks iron-black, cold and lonely and somehow alone.

Down in the streets, people are waking up, starting to get to work. Ring-ring goes the bicycle of a kid delivering bread. A school bus rumbles by, its driver swerving and yelling _"Cochon!"_ at a florist's van that tries to cut him off. A gawky delivery-girl drives a flour truck up to the local _boulangerie_ and flirts with the handler. Usually the bustle cheers me up, but today I feel as iron-hard and cold as the Tour Eiffel. I keep watching, trying to feel something, anything. A newsboy is delivering the sandwich-board blurbs to the corner newsagent's. CONCOURS DE CUISINE EUROPÉEN, it says.

Headlines for a culinary competition. Huh. It ought to interest me, but instead I just roll over in bed and pull the covers tighter around my shoulders. I don't really feel like getting up and at 'em today. I still feel like that freezing metal tower out there – cold, isolated, standing alone. As I will be, in just a little time... now that _she's_ pregnant. Should have figured the one thing Linguini would be good at would be to procreate.

Aw, I don't mean to sound like a party pooper. I'm happy for them, I really am. It's just that it's been said time and time again: A house with a baby has no place for a rat. They haven't said anything to me yet, of course, but I need to be smarter than that. I couldn't stand to see the look of rejection on their faces. And it'll be there, sooner or later.

Did you know that some colonies eat babies? Hard to believe, I know, but it's true. A bunch of six or seven macho rats, think it's cool or something, they come up to the poor little things while they're asleep and eat their – well, sorry, but – their eyes out. And – and tongues. And they nibble on their little hands and toes and – oh man, I think I'm going to be sick. And some of them eat humans' eyes while they're asleep. God, they give all of us a bad name. How could anyone do that?

So I'm not gonna wait to see it on their faces, that they think I – or Emile or Dad – would do anything like that. Humans think rats are like that, and well, I can't say I blame them. Babies change everything. But I really wish… I wish it could have lasted longer. I've been so happy here.

I don't want to leave. I will, of course. But the question remains of where to go. I can't go back to the colony, not now. I love them, and they've stood by me through thick and thin, but you can't just go back to the home you grew up in. Visit, yeah, but go back? Not me. I'm a different person now; I'd be fooling myself to think I could go back to living the life I used to when I was a kid.

I suppose I could bed down at La Ratatouille and hope the health inspectors don't make any surprise visits. If they let me stay on, that is. Oh, _man_…

Sigh.

The thing is, it's not the view of Paris or the heated room - it's their company I'm going to miss. Funny, huh? I've always liked being alone, having my space, my own time to myself. But these people – I really care about them. I understand them; they understand me. They don't stifle me, and I can be myself around them, and not have to pretend. Anywhere else I'd have to act like I can't read, or that I can't understand them, or have to hole up – I guess I've just got too used to being myself and not hiding. Figures it'd come back to bite me in the _derrière_, huh? Now I'll have to unlearn it and go back to being careful.

Well, I guess I've managed before. I can manage again.

Sigh.

* * *

"Morning, Little Chef." 

I feel a pang as I see Linguini coming downstairs, knowing it can't last much longer. Overcome with affection, I run to him, run up his clothes, and give him an awkward hug round as much of his neck and chin as I can reach, rubbing my face against his cheek.

"Hey," he smiles, plucking me off his face, cupping me in his hands. "I love you too, Little Chef." But then he stops short. "What's wrong?"

He always was too good at reading my eyes.

"You look so sad," he says gently. "Did something happen?"

I shake my head, wishing I could get away from his searching eyes. I give him my best grin, but even I can tell it falls flat. God, I'm going to miss him.

"You're scaring me, Little Chef."

I grin again and leap out of his hand, onto my perch in the window seat. Giving an exaggerated yawn, I lie down on the bed.

But he just comes up to me and bends over the small space. "Are you sick?"

I shake my head no, and run into the kitchen to get breakfast started.

* * *

"Morning, _mon Chef_," smiles Colette, waddling into the kitchen. "Smells good!" I turn and smile at her: true to the cliché, she looks radiant pregnant. At eight months, she's starting to look funny and sweet, like a cartoon character who's swallowed a football. She's gained a few pounds, which make her figure less like a pipecleaner doll, and give her face a wonderful softness; her skin and eyes glow. Today she's wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt with a big yellow smiley face right over her pregnant belly. 

"Oh! Oh – _viens vite, mon chef!"_ I drop the spatula in shock as she picks me up. She never does that – they're both very good about holding out their hands and letting me climb in. But she seems in a rush. "Quick, quick, feel this!" she whispers, holding me up to her stomach, pressing me gently against the round surface.

Time seems to stop as my face touches the drum-tight curve, my paws splayed against its translucent tautness, and I feel the vibration – a bounce, a tremor of movement. A pang goes through me as I feel this new life, and I turn my face away. How I would love to stay and see this baby grow up. Patting her belly, I hop off her hand, and turn my attention resolutely to breakfast.

But, true to my luck this morning, she's noticed. _"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, mon Chef?"_ Colette asks gently. "What's wrong?"

But I'm choked up now, and can't reply, even if I wanted to. I ignore her, turning my back. She calls out to Linguini, and I tune her out. Everyone's entitled to a bad mood once in a while – even a rat, right?

Mechanically, I add more pepper to the eggs. One good thing about my sense of smell – I can sense Colette's subtle hormonal changes through her pheromones, and that helps me anticipate most of her pregnant cravings. That alone means I should stay till the kid is born. I wonder whether I should just disappear, make it easy on them, or whether Linguini deserves an explanation. It's not that he doesn't _like_ me; I know he does. It's just that a man's family has to come first. I blink hard…

"I'm done with you giving me the brush-off, Little Chef." Linguini's hand comes into my line of vision, and I'm scooped up off the stove for the second time this morning. Snatching a glance at the stove, I see Colette turning off the burner; no escape for me with excuses of the food burning. Darn. He keeps his hand flat, allowing me to retain my dignity, showing me I'm not a prisoner, but his eyes, huge and expressive, demand a response. "You _have_ to tell me what's wrong. You look so sad all the time, and you don't smile any more, and…" He catches his breath as he really looks into my eyes, and I try to look away, but too late. "Little Chef, are you _crying?_"

_She's_ still in the room, but _he's_ all I can see, and there's not much I can say, so I just shrug.

"Little Chef…" His tone is gentle, so gentle, as though I were fragile and might break if he talked too loud. "Little Chef, we don't mean to pry, honest, but it doesn't seem right for you to be so sad when we're so happy – I don't mean you _can't_ be sad, you know," he falters in his trademark manner, "it's that we want to make you not-sad. Oh darn, I…"

"He means we want to help," Colette cuts in. "_Can_ we help?"

I sigh heavily and sit down on Alfredo's hand. It's the 'we', more than anything else, that convinces me of the hopelessness of it. They are a unit, and they have their own life now. 'Can we help?' she asked. Can they make the world stop turning, revoke the laws of nature? I think not. I shake my head wearily. What is, is.

"Is it a family problem?" Linguini asks, softly.

I shake my head.

"You're not sick, are you?" he raps out, and I can't help but be warmed at the sudden concern in his voice. But last I heard, heartsickness wasn't a real sickness, so I shake my head no.

Colette's voice comes gently, but with sudden perception. "Is it – is it something we've done?"

I shake my head rapidly. Blast feminine intuition. It is something they've _done_, but it's not their _fault_ – it's just the way of the world.

"It is, isn't it?" she says, quietly, but with more conviction.

I hate being on the hot seat like this. There is only one answer I can give, and I give it. I shake my head again, firmly.

"What is it we've done that's upset you?" she says.

"Chérie, he just told you it wasn't…" Linguini begins.

"_Chut_," she shushes him. "Tell us," she urges.

And I give up. What's the point of waiting for another month? They'll have to know anyway, and since they insist… I really wish I could have had more time, but…

I hop off his hand and gesture to them to follow me.

* * *

Once in my window-seat, I pull the red-checked bedspread off the doll's bed, mime putting belongings in it – the only thing I really need to pack is _Anyone Can Cook_ – tie it into a bundle, sling it over my shoulder, grab the corner of the book and start pulling it towards the exit.

Linguini's mouth drops open. His sharp intake of breath is loud in the room. "You want to _leave_?"

I look up into his shocked face, and his hurt and abandonment strike me to the core. His wife is right next to him, pregnant with his child, yet I've never seen him look so alone. Of all the people in the world, I never meant to cause Alfredo Linguini pain. Unaccountably, I remember the moment he stood up for me, the day he held me in his hand and said to a roomful of people, his voice trembling with affection, "This brilliant little chef can take us there." I duck my head to hide my face.

"No – that's not it," says Colette. "He doesn't _want_ to leave – he feels he _has_ to." Blast her perceptiveness, anyway. "Isn't that true, _mon Chef?"_ She turns to Linguini. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and _look_ at him, chéri! His heart is breaking!" Looking at me, her face determined, she questions me earnestly. "What on earth makes you feel you have to leave us?"

There comes a time when you have to face up to the truth. I drink my fill of their gaze, to warm me when I'm no longer with them. Then, resolutely, I point to Colette's stomach.

I don't know exactly what reaction I expected, but it certainly wasn't Colette turning to Linguini and yelling.

"I _told_ you so! Oh, _les hommes_, you don't understand anything! You men are all clueless! I told you he might feel left out, I told you we should let him know, and what did you say? 'Oh no, no, of course he knows he's part of the family, he knows he belongs here!' Now look where your ideas have gotten us! He wants to leave us!" She swings round to face me, softening her tone. "_Mon Chef_, you are part of our family. We should have told you that sooner. I was afraid you would feel jealous, but…"

She trails off as I shake my head.

"Not jealous? What, then?"

I look at Alfredo's eyes, all love and concern, and Colette's, full of affection and respect, and think how my next 'words' will remind them of what I am, and destroy everything.

I can do this.

I point at her stomach, get down on all fours on Linguini's palm and do my best impression of a bloodthirsty street-gang rat.

"What?" I'm amazed to see Colette stifle a snort of laughter. "Oh, I'm sorry, _mon Chef_, but you think we thought… after all we've been through together…"

"No way!" Linguini denies loudly. "Little Chef," he turns stricken eyes on me, "you – you _didn't_ think _we_ wouldn't want you around after the baby was born, did you?"

I feel like a sailboat caught in a gale; it's all I can do to shrug.

Alfredo stares at me.

"See what your silence has done to him?" she snaps. "Tell me, _mon Chef._ You thought you would have to leave because people with babies don't usually like rats, _non?_" Colette pushes.

I shrug again, and the next thing I know, Linguini has snatched me up again and is holding me close to his chest, and I don't mind. "Little Chef," he says, and his voice is full of emotion, "Little Chef, we'd _never_ leave you. There's nothing that would ever make us want you to go away."

"You should have told him that sooner!"

Linguini just shrugs and holds me tighter, ruffling my fur. I'm feeling squashed but I don't care. "I'd never desert you, Little Chef. I thought you knew that!"

Colette comes closer, and kisses the top of my head, cupping my back in her hand. Linguini, though, just looks at me with those eyes, and they're so full of pain that I feel remorseful and foolish at the same time. "Ah, Little Chef, I'm sorry," he says contritely. "You think _we'd_ think _you_ would _ever_ hurt our baby? We know you better than that! What made you think… If I'd had any idea you were thinking such crazy stuff, I'd have talked to you sooner."

"In fact," Colette breaks in, "we are planning to ask the two friends we trust the most to protect our baby to be his godfathers. Anton Ego…"

"…and you," Linguini finishes.

A ton of bricks just fell on my head.

What?

Me? Godfather? But I'm a…

"You okay with that, Little Chef?" Alfredo says gently, rubbing my back with his thumb.

Something in my gaze must be showing my shock, because he smiles softly, reassuringly. "You moved mountains to get hold of secret papers and save my inheritance – that would have been hard even for a human. And you, Little Chef – you did it! I can't think of anyone I'd trust more to look out for my son."

"We actually would have preferred you to be the only godfather, since it's traditionally the father's closest friend," Colette is saying, very gently, "but since we need someone who's also a human, just in case anything legal is ever needed, Heaven forbid… I hope you don't mind."

Mind? _Mind_? I'm grinning like an idiot, and Colette's smiling at me with her warm dark eyes, and Linguini's caressing my fur, and then I hop off Linguini's hand onto Colette's stomach, and as she strokes my back with a finger, I just lie down on the curved surface and listen to my godson kicking inside.

My _human_ godson.

Life just never ceases to amaze me.


	2. Protect and Serve

"_Regardez!_" Colette immediately notices the headline I was looking at earlier. "Culinary Competition! 'The finest chefs of Europe will battle it out in a new event, held in the tiny kingdom of Genovia. The continent's topmost food critics will be in attendance, and the winning country will receive the title of 'Home of the finest Cuisine in Europe'!" She turns the page, and I can see the light in her eyes. "The selection committee is even now combing Europe for the best chefs…"

Linguini peeks at the paper as Colette folds it down. "Guess we already know who the finest chef in France is, huh, Little Chef?" I warm with pleasure, but duck my head to the plate in embarrassment; I've never mastered the art of accepting compliments.

Colette sighs; I can sense the light in her eyes even though I'm still staring at my eggs. Linguini's head turns towards her. "Do you want to go, Colette? If you want to, it might be fun."

She arches a brow. "And get _mon Chef_ killed and La Ratatouille closed? Oh yes, charming."

He breathes in sharply. "No! I just…"

She smiles compassionately. "I know, chéri. I know. I would love to go. But the very success of La Ratatouille depends on our keeping a low profile. We can't take part in anything as public as this. Right, _mon Chef_?" I nod, regretfully. I wish she wasn't right, but she is, and she goes on making her point. "Leave it to the chefs in the big restaurants. We have other things they may never have."

Linguini looks at her quizzically.

She smiles, putting her hands behind her head, stretching lazily, luxuriantly. "Our own business. Our career. Our baby. Each other. _Notre amour. _And…" She looks at me, hard, pointedly. "The love of friends who'll never leave us."

Colette locks her gaze with mine until I drop my eyes, embarrassed. "She's right, Little Chef," I hear Linguini say, gently, his voice full of love and warmth. I'm embarrassed and overwhelmed, and I don't know what to say. I fiddle with my eggs. The love of family I know from, but unconditional friendship like this is new to me.

Sensing my discomfort, Colette touches my cheek, gently. "Come on, you know I'm right. _Oui, mon Chef_?"

Finally, I look up at her, and though I know she doesn't understand our language, I answer, "_Oui._"

* * *

"_Vite, mon Chef!_ The customers are waiting!"

We're all twice as busy these days because of Colette expecting. It's not that she's slowing down – the doc says she's one of those humans who don't seem to act like they're pregnant at all. She's forever telling stories about how her great-grandmothers' babies would just 'pop out' as they were working in the lavender fields without missing a beat, and I can almost believe it, she works so hard. No, Colette's not my problem. My main problem is Linguini. Ever since he found out his wife's pregnant, all he has to do is see her reaching for something heavy and there he goes – drops whatever he's doing, lunges across the kitchen, makes a grab for whatever she's supposed to be holding, and ends up spilling half the food in the place.

Like now.

"Heads UUUUUUP!"

"Aiee! _Attention, mon Chef!_"

With the experience of six months of practice, I slam the lid onto the _bœuf Bourguignon_, and just manage to dive behind the casserole as a huge glass jar falls out of Linguini's hands with a mighty CRASH. Shards of glass fly everywhere, narrowly missing me and skewering the spot where I just was.

I rise gingerly from my perch to find Linguini picking himself up off the floor, Colette looking down at him with what I can only describe as her look of tolerant adoration. "Cheri, how many times have I told you that I can carry things for myself?"

"It's not right!" Linguini grunts as he picks himself up off the floor. "I'm your husband, you're pregnant, I should help yAAAAAAH!" He slips on whatever was in the jar – pigs' feet, judging by the texture of the gelatinous mass that flies by my head and on out of the window – does a backflip, and lands back on his hands and knees at Colette's feet.

First things first. I look up at the window and shout a warning. "EMILE, DON'T TOUCH THAT, IT'S FULL OF BROKEN GLASS!" Then I turn back to Linguini, who's landed on a shard; a bloodstain is spreading slowly over the knee of his uniform.

"CLEANUP CREW!" I shout. I hear Dad bellowing orders above, and almost at once, a squad of the smaller-sized rats comes clustering in to clean up the mess – rather efficiently, too, I note with satisfaction. Then I hop off the counter to see what my friend has done to himself. In a span of eight months we've had eighteen bruises, two sprains, one dislocation, one cracked fibula, one torn ligament, a total of twenty-three stitches, and a strong letter from SOS Médecins.

This time, though, it's simple enough. Colette has his pants rolled up by the time I'm there, and she holds me up to inspect the cut. No glass in there; good. And I had the presence of mind to cover up the casserole, too; the first few dozen times this happened, we'd have to throw the food out because I was never sure if any glass or broken crockery had landed in it. Still, perched on his good knee, I huff and cant an eyebrow at Linguini, hands on my hips. How long can this go on?

He shrugs as I give him The Glare while Colette goes off to get the first-aid kit. "What?" he asks, shamefaced but defiant. "I was only trying to help."

More of The Glare, and he knows what it means. Only this time, he doesn't get ashamed; he gets defensive. "What?" he snaps. "You know it's not right to let a pregnant woman lift and carry!"

My glance takes in the mess he's made, the work he's created for Colette, and the dozens of times he's done this before. I gesture "Why?" Now I know they want me around, I do have some rights as a friend. I can't take this anymore. I want to know why he insists on offering her help she doesn't need, that only ends up creating more work.

His gaze drops to the floor. "Aw, Little Chef," he mumbles, "I know I make a mess of everything, but I just want to do this right. I know I'm a pain in the neck about this, but you see…"

I nod encouragingly, but Colette comes up, and he pastes a grin on his face. I heave a sigh, it seems it'll have to wait for another time.

She drops to her knees beside him, on the newly cleaned floor. The kids, bless 'em, have cleaned and polished it in the time it took us to have a few words. She starts to bind up his knee, but stops short as a tall, dark figure looms over us. "Oh! M'sieu Ego… Good morning!" Her voice is slightly unsteady, and I can understand it; friend or not, there's something distinctly intimidating about Ego when he towers over you like that.

He glances at Linguini's knee briefly and kneels down beside us. "All right, I trust?" he asks, and Linguini nods.

The three of us look up at him expectantly. It's unusual for him to come into the kitchen, especially during a rush. But no answer seems to be forthcoming. Taking his time, Ego just nods at each of us in turn, and then smiles slowly. Only it's a very strange smile – too stiff, too full of teeth, and it comes out more like a grimace. Colette's eyes widen nervously and I nearly overbalance as Linguini crawls backwards.

"Everything's splendid!" Ego says heartily, still wearing that unnatural smile. "I was just thinking, have you two thought of taking a couple of weeks off? Go to the beach, get some sun and all that?"

"It's October," Colette says slowly, staring at Ego as though he's lost his mind.

"And Colette's having a baby in three weeks," Linguini adds.

Ego's smile becomes even more contorted. "Ah, well, yes, I see," he grates out. "Hmm, that would pose a problem. A week in the country, then? Or perhaps a fishing holiday. Just the two of you on a boat with your fishing poles and, er… well… romantic atmosphere, and all that…"

He trails off as the three of us just stare at him. What is going on? Aside from the fact that the weather forecast predicted gale force winds, I'm not sure Ego would recognize a romantic atmosphere if it ran up and bit him on the butt.

Colette, as usual, is the first to pluck up her courage. "M. Ego, you know we are due to take a month off anyway when the baby is born. Why now?"

The toothy grin becomes so wide that Linguini crawls backwards again until he's backed up against one of the stoves. "Oh, no reason. Can't I suggest to my favourite couple that they take a second honeymoon?" The moment he's said this, his gaze falls upon Colette's belly, and he clears his throat in embarrassment. "Er… that is to say… in a manner of speaking…" The smile disappears, and he trails off, looking flustered. Flustered? I've never seen Ego look anything but dignified, even when he's scarfing ratatouille down with his fingers. What is going on?!

Ego seems to be fighting some fierce internal battle. Colette's looking up with eyes that are wide, scared and not a little compassionate. But it's Linguini who breaks the silence. "M. Ego, if you don't want to… if you don't want to be part of La Ratatouille any more… uh, if we've disappointed you in some w…"

Our patron's face actually appears shocked. "No, not in the least! Of course not! I just thought you might want a holiday…"

"It's okay, you don't have to be worried about saying it…" Trust Linguini to always expect the worst.

"You have _not_ disappointed me!" Ego snaps, and instantly looks contrite, though he tries to hide it. "You have not. At all," he trails off, rather lamely.

"Then what is it?" Colette asks gently. "What's wrong?"

Anton Ego closes his eyes for a moment, then sighs. Eyes still shut, he pulls a newspaper from the inside pocket of his black overcoat. Slowly – and, I realize, with a certain heaviness – he unfolds it to this morning's headline, the one that caught Linguini's attention. The two young humans stare at him blankly.

The moment stretches interminably. Finally, Ego speaks. "They will be sending scouts to the most popular restaurants in Paris. La Ratatouille is bound to be on their list." His voice is low and subdued. "I no longer have any control over where they go. My sources tell me that someone will be coming within the next few days."

"B-but…" I feel Linguini's leg muscles tauten, ready to get up, so I hop off his knee. "But I thought you'd be pleased if someone chose us. I mean… to have your project winning a prize like that…"

Ego mumbles something I can't make out.

"Excuse me?"

"I said…" I see him steeling himself. Then he looks directly at me, and when he speaks again, his tones are low, measured. "Some things are more valuable than trophies."

There's no mistaking his meaning. Who'd 'a' thought it? Anton Ego, afraid for me. For a split-second, I'm touched beyond words. But then I feel it boiling up in me, completely out of the blue: a surge of anger. Why are we all so scared of something I know we can achieve? Where's their national pride in French cuisine – their pride in _us_, in what we can accomplish?

The sight of the three of them, paralyzed by their own fear, galvanizes me. Scurrying up Linguini's clothing, I clamber into his hair, taking up my familiar position there that I haven't used since those days at Gusteau's. I shuffle around for perfect position, close my eyes to remember how it worked, and tug on Linguini's hair to lift his arms.

"Whoa!"

It's like riding a bicycle; you never forget. Linguini's like an extension of myself, the familiar symbiosis settling into place almost instantly, after his first, involuntary cry. Favouring my friend's cut knee, I get him to his feet and stand him over a saucepan. It's easy to get him to grab a salt-shaker and a ladle, and I go through a pantomime of cooking. He's even more open to me than usual – I can almost feel him trying to understand. Colette and Ego stare, knowing I'm trying to tell them something, but unsure what. Letting go of the 'controls' and smoothing the red hair down, I turn to them and spread my arms. I hope I'm conveying 'I did it before; I can do it again.' Then I just glare, hands on hips.

Colette's eyes widen in understanding. She glances at Ego, who is nodding slowly, brow furrowed in thought. I'm so engrossed in staring at them that I don't notice gentle fingers curling round me, lifting me down to Linguini's eye level. "But it wouldn't be fair to you, Little Chef," he says earnestly. "I took the credit for your work before. I don't want to make that mistake again."

I roll my eyes. Sheesh, last time I resented it because I had no choice. But now I _have_ a choice, and this is what I'm choosing. I'd willingly trade the glory for the chance to attend an event like this. I shake my head firmly. "You're not stealing my thunder – you'd be _helping_ me do something I _want_," I tell Linguini, reinforcing my words with gestures.

"Ookay…" Hesitant understanding dawns in those big brown eyes. "If you want it, Little Chef, I'm with you."

Good old Linguini. I can always count on him. My smile shows all the warmth I'm feeling inside – but then I turn and look at the other two.

Anton Ego's wavering. I can see in Colette's eyes that she wants it, but I can also see her fear – for me. Both of them want it, and the only reason they're holding back is that they think it would be dangerous for me. It would be touching if I wasn't so fired up. What can I say to convince them?

Struck by an idea, I hop off Linguini's hand to a corner where bowlfuls of coloured icing rest on the white countertop. Palming a handful of red and a handful of blue, I walk over to where the three humans are standing, look up with intent, and very deliberately smear the two handfuls of icing in parallel lines on the white surface, about an inch apart, creating a perfect red, white and blue tricolor. Then I stare at them all, waiting for understanding to dawn.

Colette is the first to smile.

"All for the greater glory of France, eh, M. le Chef?" Ego says doubtfully. "Well, I can't very well stop you. But I must warn you," he adds, trying for aloofness. "If, as a result of this tomfoolery, you should meet with an untimely demise, I shall be extremely displeased."

He doesn't fool me for a moment. And I appreciate it, I really do. But I can't spend my life avoiding anything that could possibly be risky. I sketch out a bow. _Thank you for your concern. _

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Colette says practically. "The scouts may not even come."

"And they might not pick us even if they do, right?" Linguini pipes up.

Ego looks from me to Colette and shakes his head. But when he speaks, he says, "Indeed. They might not."


	3. The Morning After The Night Before

Now that we've decided not to 'pull our punches', you could say, the next two days pass in a kind of low-grade hysteria. Linguini cuts himself two more times. Colette gives every new customer the eagle eye, which lasts until a little old lady complains that the eyes in the kitchen window are making her nervous. Even Anton Ego makes an expansive gesture to someone he suspects is a scout, and knocks over a bottle of 1955 A. de Luze & Fils Listrac Haut Medoc Bordeaux. The humans are making me so jittery that I wake up a couple of times with a nightmare that someone's throwing a wine bottle at me and calling me a 'disguting little creature'. The final straw is Emile, who peeks in through the window so many times to look for the mythical scout that I get the heebee-jeebees about health inspectors and finally have to ask Dad to put a lid on him.

The weekend could hardly have gotten off to a lousier start. No sooner do we get in the door than Colette makes for the kitchen, saying something about feeling like a mug of hot chocolate. "Let me make it!" yells Linguini, maneuvering around her. Unfortunately, he steps on the throw rug they bought just last week. Yowling like an alley cat, he skids out of sight past Colette, down the hallway into the kitchen, and slides to a monumental halt that rocks the house to its foundations – I can't see it, but it sounds like he's crashed into a kitchen cabinet.

We rush into the kitchen and I can't help a little stab of worry; he's unconscious. It should be routine by now – it's the third time this month – but it always scares me. Nodding towards Linguini in what I've come to regard as her "take care of him while I get help" gesture, Colette heads for her phone. "Allô? SOS Médecins?"

Linguini's lying against the cabinet, eyes closed, face slack, a goose egg forming on his head, blood trickling down his cheek. It doesn't look good. I run up him and pat his cheek – nothing. For a moment I'm just scared. I wish I was big enough to pick him up, prop him up, something, I don't know. I settle for filling a glass of water and pouring it over his head.

The effect is instantaneous, and I sag with relief. "Wha?" he mutters, tries to sit up – darn fool gesture – moans, and tries again, this time with success. I run down from the countertop and perch on his thigh, in his line of sight. "Li'Chef?" he slurs.

I hold up both my arms; he knows the drill. After a couple of tries at focusing, he says: "Two."

Relieved enough to vent my anger, I give him another glare. When is he going to stop doing this? When he kills himself?

"Aw, c'mon, Lil' Chef…"

The doorbell rings, and a doctor comes bustling in, a dark-suited man at his heels, carrying a briefcase, and Colette bringing up the rear. I quickly get out of sight, but the two men are looking suspicious. "How did he get this injury exactly?" the doc queries as he pokes and prods, decides that Linguini's OK, and bandages the cut.

Colette and Linguini exchange glances. Then Colette shrugs. "He slipped on a throw rug," she says, rather embarrassed.

Dark Suit looks at her hard, and for the first time I realize that his suspicion is not directed at me. "Is that true, Monsieur?" Colette blinks, but the man's entire focus is now on Linguini.

"Sure," Linguini says, "as far as I remember."

"What does that mean, as far as you remember?"

"Uh, one minute I was walking past Colette, and the next…" Something seems to have penetrated his brain, because he pauses in his narrative and fixes the man with a considerably more alert stare. "Uh… why do you ask?"

Dark Suit looks grim. "M. Linguini, within the past several months, you have required medical attention for…" he slips a clipboard out of his bag, "eighteen bruises, two sprains…"

Linguini and Colette – and I, mentally – join in the chorus. "Sixteen cuts, one dislocation, one cracked fibula, one torn ligament, twenty-three stitches," and I add, in my head, "and a partridge in a pear tree."

Dark Suit blinks. "Yes. Well. The point is that your injuries, in such a short span of time, are beyond what would be considered normal. In these circumstances, we're forced to look into the possibilities of parental, or, where applicable," he cuts his eyes at Colette, "spousal abuse."

Colette stares incredulously_. "Pardon?"_ she says dangerously. "You think that _I_…" She steps forward. "Who do you think you are? _Non_ – who _are_ you?"

"Michel Paladin," Dark Suit flashes a card, "social worker, here to investigate the possibility of spousal abuse. M. Linguni," he leans in, suddenly all business, "is your wife the cause of these injuries?"

Even though the answer should be, technically, 'yes', he shakes his head. "Ow!"

The doctor glares at him. "You don't have a concussion yet, M. Linguini," he says sharply. "Are you trying to achieve one?"

"Is this the moment?" Colette snaps.

Paladin ignores this. "Has your wife _ever_ struck you in anger, M. Linguini?"

Linguini freezes. Colette's mouth falls open, and I know we're both mentally replaying the same scene in the restaurant: the time she slapped him hard enough to knock him to the floor, that day they kissed for the first time. He opens his mouth and closes it again. His eyes dart to me, in my hiding place. I shake my head.

The social worker has sensed his hesitation and seems to be getting ready to pounce. "You seem to be hesitating, M. Linguini. It is never in your best interests to be protective, if…"

"No," he finally says, firmly.

"_Pardon?_"

"I said no," Linguini says, stronger now. "My… wife," they've been married a year and he still says it with a strange reverence, as if he can't believe his luck, "has never, uh, struck me in anger. Can I go to bed now?"

Colette strides over to the door, and none-too-tactfully holds it open for them. "_Messieurs._ You have your answers, he is an adult, and it's late, so…"

The two men have no choice but to retreat, the social worker looking back angrily. "We will be checking on your husband regularly, Mme. Linguini."

"Tatou," she snaps. She slams the door on them, and turns on Linguini with fire and – something else – in her eyes. "You lied for me," she says, her tone sharp. "Why did you lie for me?"

He peers up muzzily at her, clearly not all that lucid yet. "Not now, for cryin' out loud!" I yell, coming out of my hiding place. Colette seems to take my advice although she doesn't understand me; abandoning her line of questioning, she starts hauling him up the stairs. I hurry ahead of them and get his side of the bed turned down; I know the doc just told us he's OK, but I can't help worrying about him sometimes.

They come in and she's all but carrying Linguini. If his aim was to save her the heavy lifting, he's certainly going about it the wrong way. Why can't he see that?! She lowers him gently into bed, covered him up and smoothes his hair around the bandage. I push the pillow into place, and stroke his cheek. He needs a keeper, I swear. Looking up, my eyes meet Colette's. For a moment, I'm embarrassed; but, steadfastly holding my gaze, she smiles, and all the warmth in the world is in her blue eyes. I smile back; in this moment, we're united in our love for him.

She pats his shoulder, rises, and has turned when he slurs: "Didn'."

She pauses mid-stride, looks back at him. "_Pardon, __chéri_?"

"Didn' lie for you," he says. It's hard to make out his words.

"What do you mean?"

"Was the truth," he yawns. "My wife never hit me."

Well, who'd have thought it? I feel myself start to grin. Only Linguini could have that particular brand of logic. But while I get it, understanding is slow to come to Colette. "_Mais si._ I did."

"Nope," Linguini slurs, his eyes fluttering open drunkenly as he tries, comically, to concentrate. "Guy asks me if my wife ever hit me. You weren't my wife then, righ'? So 's true. My _wife_ never laid a finger…"

"Oh," Colette whispers. I really like the way this kid's mind works sometimes. He's so simple he's complex – can just cut through to the heart of the matter where smarter people would trip over their own thoughts.

He yawns again, hugely. "'M not sayin' I wouldn't lie for you. I'd take a murder rap or anythin', don' worry. You tell me what you want me to say an' I'll say it, C'lette. 's just that I wasn't lyin'… this time."

There you have it: romance _à la _Linguini. A little whimper comes out of Colette. If my friend wasn't already out like a light, I'd tell him it's not nice to make a pregnant lady cry.

* * *

We started out the weekend with high drama, and the morning just keeps getting better. I was hoping the kids would get to sleep in, but I'm woken up by a knock on the door. 

Nobody answers. After a while, I get out of bed and run up to the bedroom. There are times when I've had to listen carefully outside the door before getting in – humans like to be private about, well, you know – but I figured they wouldn't be getting up to anything too strenuous given Linguini's condition, and I was right. His color is much better, and I'm glad of that, but I can't quite bring myself to wake him up, so I rouse Colette.

"_Bonjour_," she slurs. "Wha…" Then she hears the door. "Oh. _Merci, mon Chef_," she slurs, and pads down to open it. I take up my vantage point in the bay window, and watch.

Colette opens the door to find a uniformed policeman. "_Oui, Constable?_"

_"Bonjour, Madame,"_ the uniformed man stammers, caught off guard by Colette's stomach, which is very near pushing him back out the door. "I'm… sorry, but I'm here to investigate allegations that there has been… er…" Watching from my perch overlooking the entryway, I see him cringe. The look on her face would stop an army in its tracks, but I suppose facing down murderers and drug dealers makes _flics_ strong. "Um… Monsieur…" he riffles through his notebook while Colette watches, "Paladin, of the Social Services, had told us to investigate…"

She sighs and motions him in.

"Yes, yes. Eighteen bruises, two sprains, sixteen cuts, one dislocation, one cracked fibula, one torn ligament, twenty-three stitches…" I'm about to make the mental addition, 'and a partridge in a pear tree,' but she finishes, "…and a suspected concussion, just yesterday. He's upstairs."

She leads him upstairs, but I stay where I am, holding the fort. I don't think it'll take that long; as he walks alongside her, the _flic_ keeps staring at her 'football'. It's really funny: it's never even occurred to Colette that she could hardly have caused Linguini's present condition in HER present condition. Sure enough, they file down five minutes later, the policeman looking a little sheepish, and leaves after refusing Colette's offer of coffee and cake.

She closes the door and sags against it. "He's gone." I leave my perch, run over to her and climb up her clothes to rub her cheek with my knuckles.

It seems to calm her down. _"Merci, mon Chef,"_ she sighs. "I really wish he…" The doorbell peals again, and she jumps. Turning, she flings it open resignedly. I barely dive back into her hair in time.

A cub reporter stands in the doorway, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, pencil and paper at the ready. "Bonjour, Madame," he says cheerfully. "I'm from our local school paper. Last night there was an SOS Médecins car outside your house, and we were really looking for some news…"

She claps a palm to her forehead. "No comment," she sighs, and closes the door firmly on him, still talking.

Linguini is padding downstairs now. "What's up, chérie?"

Her head whips round sharply. "You should be in bed!"

"I'm fine, honest," Linguini smiles. You think a litter of baby rats is cute, you should see Linguini when he wakes up, swaying sleepily, hair all mussed. He redefines adorable. Lurching up to Colette, he kind of falls into her arms, and she grabs him into a hug, smiling helplessly. He has that effect on people - aw, who am I kidding? – on me and Colette. His fingers find me in her hair. "Mornin', Little Chef," he smiles, caressing my fur, and I lean into the touch. We stand there, enjoying the warmth of the hug, when the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Linguini volunteers, lunging for the door. Even Linguini can't get into trouble crossing the half-meter to the door, so Colette and I watch as he opens it to reveal a large, brown-suited salesman with a handlebar moustache and a nose to rival Linguini's. He looks a little bit like Mustafa, the ex-headwaiter at Gusteau's.

"Bonjour, Madame et Monsieur!" Monsieur Salesman booms, beaming at Colette's belly like it's the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. "I see I have come at a most opportune time."

"We're not…" Colette begins, but he has already started his spiel. Tossing his briefcase aside, he leans _down_ to face Linguini – an impressive achievement. They stand nose-to-nose, so close I could run across from one of their heads to the other. "Monsieur! Your wife is pregnant, and what do you do? _Rien_, am I right? Absolutely nothing! They try to convince you in your parenting classes that you are doing something – breathing exercises, support training – but they are lies, all lies! You know in your heart that it is true, do you not?"

Linguini sighs and nods feebly. You can practically see steam coming out of Colette's ears. I hastily hop off her shoulder and take up a position behind a chair. "Now just a minute…" she begins.

_"Un moment, Madame."_ There's just enough practiced gallantry in his tone to flummox Colette for a moment, which gives him time to sweep on without waiting for an answer. Not that Linguini would have given one. He bends over backwards as the salesman bends forward, invading his personal space. "You know that your WIFE is doing all the work!" he booms. "She grows the seed within her, she carries it around, she nurtures it with her body, she will suffer the AGONIES of CHILDBIRTH, she will NURSE it, she will CHERISH it, and what do YOU do? NOTHING!" He's so loud I'm surprised the neighbors haven't called the police by now. Linguini's lip is practically trembling, and he's bent so far backwards it's like he's limbo-dancing. "Monsieur, you KNOW that having a baby is the woman's business, and that we men are just helpless bystanders, on the outside, looking in! Have you ever wished, "I wish there was something I could DO to feel useful, while still playing the MAN's role?"

"Meep," says Linguini. Colette has already gone off towards the kitchen, most probably for a weapon. I'm guessing the meat cleaver.

"Aah, but fear not!" the salesman grins conspiratorially. "I feel your pain! When my own dear wife was _enceinte_," I note he's not wearing a wedding ring, "I went through the same feelings, but NOW I have the solution!" He whips open his briefcase to reveal a photo of a flat-packed rectangular object. Linguini finally gives up the battle to stay upright, and sits on the floor. He seems about to break out of his spiel-induced stupor long enough to ask what it is, but the salesman beats him to the punch. "This, Monsieur, is a do-it-yourself deluxe crib!" Three meters of instruction manuals unfurl out of nowhere before our eyes. "You can exercise your masculine privilege and MAKE something with your OWN TWO HANDS for your baby! Hammering, sawing, sanding… this is a MAN's work! Thank of your pride when you present your family with… MON DIEU!" He jumps a foot in the air as Colette emerges from the kitchen. Wrongo: not the meat cleaver but the shish kabob skewer. Can't blame him for taking a few steps back, really.

"Right," Colette says firmly as she advances, the implement held out like a rapier. "You've said your piece, Monsieur, and now it's time to… Huh?"

Obnoxious as the salesman may be, his words make a light bulb go off in my brain. What better to distract Linguini from his crazy I'll-get-it complex than a nice harmless project he can channel all that destructive energy into? I'm for the crib. And so it is that I step out from behind the chair and call out to Colette. "Get the darn crib, already!"

She looks at me, blue eyes wide. "_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, mon Chef_?"

Should have figured she wouldn't understand me. Rolling my eyes, I mime Linguini rushing to grab something, missing and falling flat on his back. I point out to her on my own body the location of Linguini's eighteen bruises, two sprains, sixteen cuts, one dislocation, one cracked fibula, one torn ligament, twenty-three stitches, and a partridge in a pear tree. Then I point to the package and mime him pottering away happily, making something for the baby. Linguini's eyes flit from me to her. I can tell he thinks it's a good idea too, but he doesn't say anything.

Colette takes a deep breath. "I see your point, _mon Chef_," she admits. "Okay, Monsieur," she looks at the salesman, "how much is your…"

But the man has been staring from me to Colette in horror, eyes widening, hands shaking, taking a step back with every 'sentence' we share, and when she breaks her conversation with me and turns to him, he throws the package and instructions to the floor, lets out a mighty yell, and runs off as though the hounds of Hell were after him, leaving the front door flapping in the breeze.

I cant an eyebrow – sometimes I forget how humans can really be unsettled when they see other humans talking to a rat. "Sorry," I shrug insincerely.

"Huh," Colette stares after his retreating form. "Musophobe." She extends a hand to Linguini, helping him up.

"Guess we can pay him when he comes back, huh?" Linguini suggests. He's halfway up when he realizes he shouldn't be leaning on a pregnant lady to get up, lets go, and falls to the floor again.

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" I yell. "Will you give your body a break?"

Colette, getting the general idea, glares at him. "Yes, I've had quite enough of this. Why do you insist on…"

The doorbell rings again, although it's still open. We turn to see a short little woman in the door. Colette advances upon her menacingly. "What now? Cub reporter? Girl Scout cookies? WHAT?"

Eyeing the rapier, the woman takes a tentative step back. I realize I'm still out in the open, and dash behind the chair while she's distracted.

"I – I…" she stammers. "I thought you'd be _pleased_ to know that La Ratatouille has been selected to represent France at the Inter-European Culinary Competition!" At their dropped jaws, she adds, "B-but if you don't _want_ to, it's…"

I never saw any guest get installed in an easy chair with a mug of hot chocolate so fast in my _life_.


	4. In Which the Antagonist is Introduced

"Good Lord, Achilles! Cannot you answer a simple question? Is it as good as the best or isn't it?" 

Chef Mors Amarus, Royal Chef of the Palace of Genovia, slammed his ladle down onto the Ecuadorian granite surface of the royal kitchen, causing the subject of his demand – a rather fetching soufflé – to shake dangerously. He shot it a look that would have melted steel. A tall, thin man with long black hair and a smattering of straggly beard over his aquiline features, Amarus towered over his sous-chef and gastronomic critic, Achilles Cravant, a young man as short and round as his boss was thin and tall, and currently quaking in fear. "M-m-m-m-my Chef," he quavered, "p-perhaps…" 

"Perhaps nothing!" roared the thin cook. "NOW!"

With a trembling hand, Cravant poked his fork into the soufflé. The morsel almost fell off the shaking utensil as it made its unsteady way to his lips, but it finally reached its destination. He closed his eyes in concentration as he moved the soufflé round and round in his mouth.

"Well?!" snapped Amarus, causing Cravant to jump a foot into the air.

The young man choked and swallowed, hard. He looked up at the chef and appeared to be pondering the merits of a new life in Outer Mongolia.

"It… it is better than the work of Chef Strudel of Austria," he stammered.

Amarus just stared, hard.

"And it… it is better than the work of Chef Roesti of Switzerland… and Chef Boiler of Engand."

A disdainful snort.

"Definitely better than the work of Chef Dolma of Greece and Chef Toutpetit of Liechtenstein…."

A nod.

"…Chef Frankfurter of Germany and Chef Ziti of Italy …"

A nod, more satisfied than the last, with a hint of impatience…

"…Chef Moussakis of Cyprus and Chef Banderilla of Spain…."

A satisfied grunt.

"…Chef Marinee of Holland and Chef Croketsersen of Switzerland." The taster trailed off nervously at the murderous look emanating from the cook.

"You left out one country," he said ominously.

"D-did I? I'm not su…"

"I did not SEND you to the finest restaurants in Europe so that you could TOY with me, Cravant!" Amarus growled. "These countries are no threat to Genovia's ascension to the throne of _haute cuisine_ in Europe! It is France I fear. Is it better than the finest cuisine in France?"

Cravant swallowed nervously. "Well, I.. I tasted so little of it… I… I really didn't get a chance to…OOMPH!" he spluttered as the chef grabbed him by the hair and shoveled another huge forkful into his open mouth.

"Is this big enough for you? I need an opinion, and I need it NOW!" roared Amarus. "Come on!"

The chef was boiling with impatience. His subordinate chewed slowly, which only infuriated him more. He had to put the fear of God into the lazy bum… Thinking fast, he snatched up a shining meat cleaver and brandished it in his face. "Cravant!" he shouted. "Spit it out! NOW!"

The taster's eyebrows shot up, but he obediently spat the mouthful out into the chef's face.

"ARGH!" Half-chewed soufflé dripping down his forehead and cheeks, Amarus wiped the gooey mixture out of his eyes and grabbed his sous-chef by the throat. "YOU IDIOT!" he roared. "Is it better than the finest France has to offer, or not? Tell me NOW before I have you roasted for Her Highness' dinner!"

"It-it…Well, in a manner of speaking… 'Better' being a relative term… that is to say… b-better than… than..."

"Than the one all of Europe is talking about, pea-brain! The bastard son of Chef Délicieux of France!"

"Er… that's Gusteau. Ack!" The hands had tightened around his throat. "Y…you want to know if the soufflé has surpassed the work of Chef Gusteau the Younger, of France?" The hands loosened infinitesimally around his throat and Cravant took a deep breath, his life in his hands. "N-n-n-no."

He had to drop to the floor to avoid the perfect fusillade of pots, pans and utensils being thrown across the room as Amarus's fury vented itself. Here and there through the screaming he could make out words. "Years of training… decades of study… dedication… all for the greater glory of Genovia… to be defeated by some illegitimate upstart! I won't have it… won't have it!" Finally the royal chef straightened up, panting. "Come here, Cravant."

Trembling, the young cook approached, expecting a blow with a saucepan, but was relieved to find himself receiving a pat on the back and a friendly smile. So friendly, in fact, that he tried to take a step back, but was stopped by an iron grip on his arm. "Tell me, Cravant," his boss began kindly. "You are a patriotic young man, no?"

"Y-yes," the young cook stammered, trying to back away nervously.

"And you would do anything for your country, isn't that so?"

"W-well… within reason, yes."

"Now, now, no reservations! We are so close to becoming the gastronomic capital of Europe. We need to attract tourists to our country, and what better way than through our fine cuisine! We MUST defeat Chef Delicieux…"

"Gusteau."

Ignoring the correction, Amarus breezed on brightly, "…of France! This is a matter of national pride. Genovia's reputation is at stake!"

"But if you came second, Chef Amarus, that would still…"

CLANG – the long-awaited blow from the frying-pan came at last. "Second is not a word in our vocabulary! We must win by fair means or foul! Our nation requires no less of us!" Amarus grabbed Cravant by the arm and led him away. "To ensure our national reputation's success, we must stop those French chefs from arriving at the contest at any cost! Here's my plan…"


	5. Plan A

Author's notes: I'm truly grateful for your wonderful reviews, which have motivated me to keep writing.

Of course, as some of you have noticed, I've borrowed Meg Cabot's fictional principality of Genovia from _The Princess Diaries._

Here's a thought – request, really: If everyone who reads this sends an email to support at fanfiction dot com (or dot net) and asks for a _Ratatouille_ category to be added, perhaps they'll do it. Pretty please? I've done it more than once, but I think they need to see that a number of us want this.

* * *

Monday, October 15, 3:20 PM 

"What took you so long, Alfredo?"

I perch on Linguini's shoulder as he pushes through the train corridor, maneuvering through the crush of passengers to slide into the seats he and Colette are sharing. Sheepishly, he holds up a pair of ice-creams. Colette smiles delightedly and takes one; Linguini, settling into the plush cushion, holds his up to his shoulder so I can take a bite. The flavor of pistachios and cream and sugar and vanilla and lemon explodes in my head, and I close my eyes. Dimly, I hear Colette asking, "Did you get everything into the luggage racks, _chéri_?"

Linguini beams proudly. "Of course." There wasn't much luggage, really, and Ego drove us to the station, but since my 'speech', Colette has been trying to give Linguini something to do. The luggage compartment is spacious, and the passenger compartment smells exciting, of clean soap and astringent disinfectant and plastic and velour and the indefinable scent of hundreds of people from faraway places, the heady perfume of print and paper from the glossy magazines they leave on the seats, the...

"Hey, look!" Linguini looks out of the window and waves. Like a proud parent, Ego is smiling through the window at us. It takes me a second to shift from the sense of smell to that of sight. The sight of Anton Ego fills me with warmth. I wish he could come with us right now, but he has an important meeting in Paris. I'm pleased he'll be with us for the contest itself, though; he's going to join us by plane the day after tomorrow, when the actual competition starts.

Seeing him, Colette smiles and gives him a small wave. He waves back, and it's so incongruous – Anton Ego, standing there waving at us in his standard post-_Le Monde_ uniform of black turtleneck and beret – that it gives me pause for a moment. A pale, silent figure with an incongruous grin, he towers over the hustle and bustle like a tall, thin scarecrow on the platform of the Gare de Lyon; he looks alien and out of place among the crush of suited commuters, students hefting backpacks and mothers herding children. He's beaming brightly, yet his eyes are a little sad. At leaving us? It can't be – can it? He can't be lonely without us, can he? I suppose it's possible. He doesn't seem to have any friends – sometimes I think we're the only family he's got. It occurs to me that I know nothing of Ego's life before I met him. A mystery for another time…

But I forget all that when I see Emile's head poking out of Ego's muffler. My wonderful brother smiles at me and waves. I gulp, and wave frantically back. I really love Emile and Dad and the others – I'm surprised to find a lump forming in my throat. I guess because I almost lost them all once, it feels weird to leave them and go off to another country – even for a little while. "Take care, Emile!" I mouth exaggeratedly through the glass. Emile mouths something, Ego mouths something, the station master blows his whistle, and the train moves off, picking up speed as the two of them disappear from view, still waving until they're out of sight.

As the train pulls out of the station and begins to pick up speed, the city slowly giving way to the _banlieue_ and then to more open spaces, I catch Linguini's eye. He catches Colette's gaze, and slowly, we all start to grin at each other. It's a great moment. It occurs to me we haven't taken a trip anywhere together before, and the thrill of the 'first' is shining in all of our eyes. I wish the rest of the clan could be here to share it with us. Huh? The rest of the clan? Where'd that come from? …Ah, who am I kidding? If I can be their kid's godfather, they can be honorary members of the clan. Ego, too. I grin at the memory of Ego's last words to us. "I'm holding you responsible for these two, Mme. Tatou. You will stop them taking any unnecessary risks, won't you?"

* * *

Monday, October 15, 3:50 PM 

Colette's leafing through the maps and the itinerary again. "Okay, we're arriving at Nice in nearly five hours. We have an hour there, then the regional train from Nice to Genovia leaves at 9:20. The shuttle should be waiting when the train arrives." The competition site is basically a field on the outskirts of the capital of Genovia, and there are shuttle buses for the contestants and spectators.

"The bus will be waiting, right?" Linguini asks nervously.

"_Bien sûr, chéri_."

He's silent a moment and then begins again. "What if it isn't?"

"Then we call them," Colette says patiently. It's not the first time we've had this conversation.

"You're sure the train won't be late?"

She gives a long-suffering sigh. "The TGV goes at over 300 kilometers an hour," she says; she's given us the information several times already. Of the three of us, she's the only one who's taken it before.

"What if it is? Uh, late, I mean?"

I feel for Colette, but I really can't blame Linguini; the train he took to Paris from Rome, I remember him telling me one night in our old apartment, was the cheapest of _regionale_ trains that stopped at every cow in case the milkmaid wanted a ride.

Her tone begins to take on an edge. "Then we take the next train in the morning."

"Okay," he exhales. "I'm sorry, cherie. And we won't miss the competition if we do?"

"Alfredo!" Colette finally loses her patience. "What is wrong with you?"

He immediately looks so contrite I feel sorry for him, and I can see her face softening. "Sorry," he colours in embarrassment. "It's just…"

_"Oui, cheri?" _

"It's the first time I've taken a trip with something to look forward to," he blurts without thinking. Then he repeats, "Sorry."

Her eyes widen, but she says nothing, just reaches out and grasps his hand tightly. It comes to me in a flash: the last time he took a train was that damn _regionale_ to Paris, right after his mom died. Can't have been fun. Must have been a downer of a trip, in fact. What a way to take your first steps into a new country…

I snuggle into Linguini's collar and lazily look out into the countryside. The sunlight gleams off the surface of a lake as we whiz past. I'm hardly a one to talk about travel, I muse wryly; all I know about it is the adventure shows and travel programs I've seen on TV. Ships, divers, cars, stuntmen, planes, parachutists, I've watched them all, but my one memorable journey, the rapids ride down the sewers that took me to Paris, is still the stuff of occasional nightmares. Glass houses…

Colette puts her feet up on the seat next to Linguini. As he rubs her foot absently, she relaxes back in her seat and closes her eyes. Linguini, though, is excessively perky, staring out of the window and taking in the view like an excited kid. "Look at that, Little Chef!" he points out to me. It's only a river, but he's excited as a little boy. "Did you see that?" he asks repeatedly at dozens of cows, barns, buildings, fields in flower and fruit. I give him a smile. His enthusiasm is contagious. I'm having a good time, too – the ground whips past so fast it makes me dizzy, but if I look at the countryside in the distance, I can relax and enjoy the scenery go by.

It's strange to watch the scenery from a human vantage-point. Seeing things like this, I can understand why humans feel they own the world. You're high up above everything, blades of grass seem small and insignificant instead of tall and overpowering, and you can see everything so far and so clearly you feel anything's possible. I must tell Dad. That's why. You can't blame them, I keep thinking idly, but you can't blame us, either. From a rat's-eye view, a cat is a monster towering over us, its red mouth the only thing in the world. Form a human perspective, there's soft fur and ears, and a cat looks almost safe. They don't know the gut-wrenching fear that comes from being close to the ground. How could they? I wonder if they get an inkling when their visionaries, their writers and poets, write tales about giants. What was it Colette was reading? C.S... something, where it was the humans who were on the menu?

My thoughts merge into the green and gold of the view outside the window. The train's faint rocking motion lulls us into a deep relaxation after the hectic week. Through her lashes, Colette smiles at Linguini in the late afternoon sun, the golden light glinting off her cheekbones. Today she's wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a baby on a motorbike, wearing a leather jacket, with the caption BORN TO BE BAD.

I must have fallen into a daydream for longer than I thought, because when I next look at Linguini, he's asleep, lulled into a doze by the faint rocking motion. I ought to get some shut-eye too… Linguini mumbles something.

"Huh?" I murmur. But looking up at his face, I see his eyes are still closed. Whatever he's saying, he's talking to someone in his dream.

_"Non __voglio__andare__ a __Parigi__, Mamma! __Voglio__ stare con __te__!" _

What? I know a little Italian, but not enough to understand that. 'Not… go to Paris? Stay with you?' I translate mentally. Colette's eyes are wide with sympathy. "What'd he say?" I ask her with my eyes.

But he's muttering again. _"Non ti lascio mai sola. Mai, mi senti? …Mamma?" _His voice rises. _"Mamma!"_

"Alfredo…" Colette begins to rise from her seat.

Linguini's voice is raw, despairing. _"Mamma!"_ His tone rises to a yell, his voice cracks; his eyes fly open and he jolts awake. "Huh!"

Colette practically flings herself into his lap and hugs him hard. He wraps his arms round her and just holds on. It takes me a moment to register that he's just relived his mother's death. I think of Dad and Emile and the rest of my litter, and my stomach clenches. Reaching out a paw, I ruffle the hair on his temple; he's still clinging to Colette, but in a moment he reaches out, blindly, for me. His hand cups my back and I grab his fingers and hold on tight, as tightly as I can, rubbing my face against him. As his shuddering subsides, I lean my head against Linguini's warm neck, still embracing his fingers tightly, and listen to the thundering of the blood in his carotid artery. I'd be having palpitations, too, if I were him.

We stay that way for the longest time, as the golden French countryside rolls by alongside us.

* * *

Monday, October 15, 6:20 PM 

"And then she raised her skirt and said, "With legs like these, who needs tickets?"

Linguini chuckles appreciatively, and Colette grins through the steam rising up from her coffee. The snack bar has provided us with coffee and some rather dry sandwiches, and Colette's spent the past hour regaling us with stories about the train trips she took when she was young and wild – I guess I should say, when she was young_er_ and only _slightly_ wilder. Anyone who has lined up as potential babysitters a six-foot-ten, leather-jacketed gay _sadomasochiste_ named Bruno and a wraith-like, violet-haired Wiccan – Sylvana, I think her name was – who likes to dance naked in the moonlight, can't exactly be called conventional. Man, I love this family.

Linguini grins. "I remember this one time I was traveling with Mamma, and she…"

_"OH, MON DIEU!" _

The shriek came from a miniskirted, blonde human girl, tall and well-built, with big breasts barely covered by a red tube top. She squeals again in the train doorway, so loudly that the other occupants of the compartment, an old lady and a businessman, turn to look disapprovingly. _"__C'est__TOI!"_ She rockets across the compartment and jumps onto Linguini's lap.

His mouth falls open. Completely speechless, he turns beet-red and looks to Colette for help as he always does. Colette is dumbstruck for a second – plenty of time for the female to start a monologue. "Oh, Monsieur Linguini! The fabulous chef! The son of the great Gusteau! Representative of France at the great culinary competition! It is such an honor! I never thought, I never dreamed I would meet you!"

Her voice rises to a squeal. The businessman frowns and puts some music on his laptop. Good luck trying to shut out the noise. She's tugging Linguini up out of his chair, and her grip is so tight, I can see, that he has to either move with her or be violent to her – and I KNOW my gentle friend would never be violent towards a woman. Once she has him on his feet, she pulls on his arm again. "Oh, you simply MUST come and have a drink with me and my girlfriends and ride with us for the rest of the way!"

The old lady turns in her seat and polishes her glasses, sensing a showdown. Linguini looks over at Colette helplessly, and I can see Colette's eyes blazing, not just with rage but with hurt. She remains steadfastly seated. This is one time she's not going to defend him.

_Merde_, I wish my friend had some idea how to deal with a woman. Even sometimes would be a help. "She's not gonna get you out of this one!" I whisper angrily. "You have to reject this vamp's advances yourself! She's gonna think you'd just abandon her for a pretty face, come _on!_"

But Linguini's not so much charmed as intimidated. Man, I wish I didn't have to do everything myself sometimes. With a sigh, I discreetly hop off his shoulder and scramble to the floor, being careful to stay out of sight of the old lady and the businessman. I poke my head out from behind the chair and, although it goes against all my instincts, show myself to the blonde. She reacts instantly with an ear-splitting scream that jangles along my nerves. Instinct takes over as I dive back to safety, my muscles twitching in anticipation of a blow that never comes.

"AIEEEE! A RAT!"

Well, that didn't go as planned; instead of letting go of Linguini, the blonde leaps fully into the air in the classic "catch-me" pose, meaning to fall into his arms. But Linguini makes no heroic move to catch her. Safely behind the seat now, I watch as my friend stands there motionless, staring at the spot where I was, lanky arms hanging limply at his sides, which leaves her poised in midair for a long-drawn-out slow-motion moment before crashing to the floor.

Linguini looks down again, satisfied that I'm safely hidden, and looks back to where the blonde is sitting on the floor, extremely disgruntled, rubbing her rump, her perfectly coiffed hair falling all over her face. Shaking, I scramble up behind the curtains to the luggage rack for a better view, and just in case someone decides to get down on all fours and look. But I'm lucky – the other people in the compartment seem to think it's just the girl being hysterical. Linguini, bless him, is running interference. "A rat?" he says blandly. "There's no rats on the TGV. It must have been a plastic cup rolling across the floor, look?" He points to a piece of litter someone's tossed on the linoleum-covered corridor.

Rising, the blonde mutters to herself, and is about to reach for Linguini again; but Colette, apparently having had enough, or perhaps encouraged that he didn't catch the girl when she fell, is rising from her seat. "Look, _ma belle_," she grates, and the fire in her eyes would melt the Medusa, "_ça suffit_. Get your hands off him."

But the girl, getting to her feet, attempts to stare Colette down. She falters almost immediately and takes a step back at the fire in the blue eyes, but you have to give her credit for trying. Changing tack, she declares: "Who said he wanted to stay, anyway? Look at you! Fat, bloated, disgusting! You're not even wearing makeup! Why would he want you?"

Linguini frowns. Hurt and rage fill Colette's eyes, and she opens her mouth to speak. But the blonde's not done. She turns to Linguini and links both her hands through his limp and still arm. "Come with me, honey. I can show you a better time than she can."

Colette's suddenly still. "Go ahead, if you want," she says, her tone flat, neutral. I tremble and scrunch my eyes shut, waiting for something monumentally stupid to come out of Linguini's mouth, for their marriage to end right then and there.

"You can't," says Linguini slowly.

The girl stares at him. "Who can't what?"

He slowly takes a couple of steps back and looks at the two women. "You can't show me a better time than Colette," he says with great concentration, as if finding the words is hard for him. "Nobody could." He takes a step towards his wife. "I've had the time of my life with Colette. And I don't care if she's ugly –" I clap a hand to my forehead, but he's going on. "I mean, even if she _was_ – anyone with eyes can see that she's the sexiest, most gorgeous woman in the world – but I guess I'm saying if she _was_ ugly – even then…" Colette's starting to smile, the sparkle returning to her eyes. "We're going to grow old together. And when she's old, she'll still be the sexiest, most gorgeous woman in the world to me."

The blonde bites her lip, but Alfredo's not finished. "I guess… I'm gonna show you," he says. Slowly, he reaches over and picks up a copy of _Elle_ someone's left on a chair. Tentatively, he points to the model on the cover, a fabulous redhead with an hourglass figure and diamonds, and says, weighing his words, "Colette's prettier than her, to me." He opens the magazine and points to another girl, a clean-skin model with a girl-next-door look. "And her," the pages start to turn faster, "and her, and her, and her…" Having exhausted the full-page spreads of the supermodels gracing the glossy pages, he turns to the blonde, and his expression is earnest, trying to make himself understood, "…because she's my girl, and I love her."

Both women's jaws are hanging open by now. He gives the blonde a friendly, apologetic half-smile. "I'm sorry I can't come with you," he apologizes meekly, "and it's not that you're not pretty, I'm sure you are. It's just that I can't see you're pretty, you or any woman, because I've got all the woman I need right here." The businessman and the old lady burst into applause.

I start at the noise. But apparently, Linguini can't hear it over the gears of his brain turning. He frowns, remembering. "And it wasn't nice of you to say those things to Colette. They're not even true. You're pretty on the outside, but… but she's pretty on the inside. That's why I belong to Colette for as long as she wants me."

The blonde bursts into tears and rushes out of the compartment.

Colette drops heavily back into her seat, swaying slightly with the rocking of the train, a faint smile playing around her lips and eyes. "Wow. You _do_ know how to reassure a girl, don't you, cheri?"

Linguini sits back down, too. He takes the question literally, and looks at her wide-eyed. "No, could you teach me? I've been trying to learn for years."

Colette just laughs.

* * *

"What do you mean, the attempt failed?" screeches a tinny voice from the pink, diamond-studded cell phone. 

"What I said," says Mariesca Gioventu, Genovian model. The flask of sleeping-draught lies upon the velour of the seat next to her, unused.

"You must have been too obvious! I told you: BE SUBTLE!"

Mariesca hitches up her tube top. "I was!" She fluffs her bleached hair for emphasis. "_Plenty_ subtle!"

"Miss Gioventu, I know you. You're anything but subtle."

"No, really, I was!" Mariesca protests. "I didn't grab his—"

"All right, all right, that will do," grates the voice on the phone. "Then what was your mistake?"

"No mistake," she sighs, a faraway look in her eyes. "He had his reasons." She closes her eyes and leans against the cool glass of the window. "I hope one day I have a reason like that."

* * *

Chef Amarus hangs up the phone and flings it against the wall. He turns to his companion, the only other person in the room, and raps out one short phrase. 

"Plan B."


	6. Plan B

Monday, October 15, 8:20 PM 

"I'll get it!"

"Okay, cheri, but I can…"

"No, no, let me help you!" Linguini maneuvers the suitcase off the train, and reaches to help Colette down. "Whoops!" Slipping on the smooth stone of the platform, he gets one leg wedged in the narrow space between the platform and the train.

"_Oh, non_!" Jumping off the train, Colette grabs him under the arms and hauls him to safety. It's a miracle the woman hasn't had a miscarriage by now. She turns to me. "Can't you take the wheel for a while, _mon Chef_?" she says jokingly.

"Aw, Colette," Linguini smiles sheepishly at her teasing. I'm perched comfortably in his hair, but I won't control him unless I have to. He can't very well wear a toque all the time, so we got a straw beret before we left Paris; its big holes allow me pretty good visibility. I look out now through the latticework, into the bustling, high-ceilinged space, smelling of diesel and rain and dried-up chewing-gum. The place is old and has a pleasant façade, with red-and-white brick and eighteenth-century curlicues. Everywhere I turn, people are hurrying by; I read that this is a major hub for a lot of destinations, but I suppose I didn't expect such a crush of people, especially at night. Their scents whiz by so fast I can barely make sense of them: dust and sweat from a worker, expensive perfume, horses and mud… Ah, there's the _Départs_ board. Rolling the case, Linguini heads for it, and he, Colette and I cluster in close to the tiny print, searching the schedule for our train. "Nice… okay, here's the departures from Nice…" Linguini says, his voice low in concentration, his finger running along the yellow board. 

I smell the stranger before I hear him. He smells of sweat and nerves and something that makes my gut churn, something acrid and metallic that makes my mind scream and shut down before I can place it. I blink and clutch onto Linguini's hair, and a trembling voice grates on my senses:

"Come quietly or I fill her stomach with lead."

* * *

Monday, October 15, 8:30 PM

It's fully dark outside. We're being marched down the street away from the station, and I hate that this is happening, I HATE it. The short stranger with dark glasses hiding his eyes and a muffler hiding the rest of his face has his gun pressed into Colette's stomach. Linguini's absolutely paralyzed with the danger to her; Colette, though, would have had him by now, except that he very deliberately clicked off the safety when we didn't start moving right away. "Any sudden moves and I pull the trigger," he said, though his voice shook so much as he said it that I wasn't sure if he meant it. Still, if there's one thing I've learned from my upbringing, it's that enemies are most dangerous when scared. It's that which keeps me from creeping out from under Linguini's cap and sinking my teeth into the stranger's flesh: the knowledge that if he's startled, his nervous fingers might very likely contract and fire off a shot into her, and there won't be a damn thing either of us can do about it.

In an agony of frustration, I stare at the barrel of the gun, a silencer screwed onto it. I can probably reach it, reach his gun hand – but it's as risky as walking past a cat and hoping it won't see you. Helpless, I stare longingly at a pair of passing _gendarmes_ as we walk further and further away from the station, past the taxi-ranks and bus-stop – what I wouldn't give to be in one of those now – and turn out of the hustle and bustle down a tree-lined street.

We've hardly walked a block when we come to a stop in front of a baker's van. It smells of gasoline and flour and yeast. The gun doesn't waver as the man unlocks the back. "In," he says sharply. "You first, Gusteau."

Huh? Linguini raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. I take a tight grip on the straw of his beret, and hold on as he clambers up through the metal doors.

"Now you, _ma petite_."

She's glaring daggers at him, but even Colette can't argue with a .38. She lifts one knee up onto the truck bed.

"Let me help her, she's pregnant!" Linguini snaps, holding out a hand to her without waiting for an answer.

I see a flash of intent in the man's eyes at Linguini's sudden movement. The gun barrel moves down, down to aim at Linguini's feet, and I barely have time to grab the red hair and make my friend jump as high as we can before the gun goes off.

There's no sound as the bullet burrows through the floor, pinging against the cobblestones below, but the flash is blinding, the stench overwhelms me, and one word fills my head: _Emile!_ I've lost Emile, I've gotten my dearest brother killed, the acrid smell is filling my nostrils, I've lost my whole family, all my friends—

I blink, not once but several times, shaking my head to clear it. I slowly regain my shaky footing as I sense Linguini's hair underneath my feet, hear the man's voice, but all that is dimmed by the wall of odor, the stench of gunfire. I must have been out of it for a moment, because Linguini and Colette are seated in the corner of the van now, and the guy's lecturing. "Any more resistance, and the bullet goes into your hearts – her first!" I'm suddenly panicked about Linguini's feet; I ache to run down and check that he's okay, but I can't until the door closes, so I sit quietly, trying to collect my wits about me after my sudden blackout. And what brought _that_ on? I'm not the kind of guy who loses it. At least, I didn't use to be.

Finally, the door clangs shut and I hear a padlock clicking into place outside. I don't wait. I rush out of the beret and hightail it down to Linguini's feet, looking for injuries. It's hard to see in the dark, but I lift his pants leg, pat around his shoes, check his jeans for bloodstains, scan his face for signs of pain… but no, he's looking down at me with a gentle smile that melts my heart. "You were worried about me," he says, so softly I can hardly make out the words. To hide my emotion, I give a 'well, duh' shrug. "I'm okay, Little Chef," he resassures me, and though he still seems shaken, I guess he's as okay as any of us is going to be right now. "And… thanks."

With a nod, I start looking round the iron prison for a way out, lurching slightly on my feet as the van starts moving. The jolting motion doesn't reassure me. I don't know what's in store, but I'd lay Euros to little green apples that wherever we're going, there's not going to be a welcoming committee.

Colette is staring at the wall in a sulk, but her curiosity gets the better of her and her eyes track over to Linguini. "Thanks for what?"

"It…wasn't me who jumped," Linguini admits, shamefacedly.

Her sharp intake of breath is audible even over the clangor of the metallic conveyance. "Merci, _mon Chef_," she repeats, quietly. Then she rounds on Linguini. "And I'll thank _you_ not to defend me next time!" she snaps, clearly fuming.

Linguini blinks. "I was supposed to let him shoot you?"

"I can take care of myself!"

"What about the baby?" he blurts.

"Is that all you care about?"

He frowns indignantly. "No! Of course n…"

He stops short as I slam both hands down on the metal floor, loud enough to make myself heard. "That's enough!" I find myself yelling at them both, gesticulating like mad. "You want to fight, fight the guy who put you in this mess, but don't take it out on each other!"

They're speechless for a second, then Colette drops her gaze. She opens her mouth, but Linguini beats her to it. "Sorry, Colette," he murmurs.

"_Ah, non_!" She takes his hand. "I was angry at him and took it out on you. You were very chivalrous. _Pardonne-moi_"

"No, no, I was the one who…"

Look at them, fighting about who gets to be in the wrong. I stare at them both and cant an eyebrow. Suddenly, Colette starts giggling, and Linguini sees the humor in the situation and grins too, and for a moment, everything seems better.

The lightness doesn't last long, though. In the dark of the cabin, relieved by the yellow of passing streetlights tracking across the blackness through the seams where metal meets metal, we search for an escape route. The hole where the bullet penetrated the floor is my first target, but it's too small for me – in fact, for anyone but the kids in Estelle's latest litter. I stand at the hole for a long time, trying to figure out an angle, but in the end the stench of gasoline is too overpowering and I draw back. What an idiot. He's just lucky he didn't hit the fuel line and make the whole van go up like a Roman candle.

* * *

Monday, October 15, 9:30 PM 

It's been what seems like hours of fruitless search of the van, and we're pretty sure there's no way out until we stop. We've even tried the roof. Linguini lifted me into his cap, and we all scanned the ceiling and side seams together; the task is made more difficult by the fact that the van seems to have turned onto a country road, and the lights are fewer and further between until they finally stop altogether. I'm starting to see the stars through the cracks in the iron. Oh, yes, there are a few chinks in the metal armor, sure. But the lack of tools impedes us; all our utensils, even Colette's favorite knives, were in our luggage, even now lying unattended on the platform and probably being surrounded by half-a-dozen bomb squads in the Gare de Nice.

"Now what?" Linguini looks at both of us helplessly.

"I suppose we could wait until we get wherever we're going," Colette assays doubtfully. "It might be…" She trails off as the truck's shuddering slows, then stops. The jerky stop-start-stop shaky motion of parking slides us back and forth, finally pitching Linguini onto the dusty floor next to Colette.

The engine cuts out, and after a few moments, the door swings open. "Out," the stranger commands tersely.

"You sound like something out of a bad gangster movie," Linguini cracks as he 'helps' Colette out of the van – actually, she keeps him from tripping.

"Move," is the only response. He gestures us towards what looks like an ancient chateau but is most likely a privately owned manor, all crumbling stone and ivy, the moonlight glinting eerily off the iron bars on the windows. Everything looks strange and forbidding in the dark, and it's hard to get my bearings. We're in a wooded area, as far as I can see, and quite far from any roads – at least, I can't smell asphalt. Linguini stumbles on the dirt path leading into the house, but the man just prods us further with his gun. "Go on," he growls, and I suddenly get the distinct impression that Linguini's right – this is a guy trying to sound tough, but who's really scared. Can we use that in any way, I wonder?

He herds us through the metal gate, down a long, dark hallway and down a flight of stairs into what, I'm gloomily sure, must be the dungeons. Uh-huh. Sometimes I just hate it when I'm right. Rows of metal-studded oak doors, dampness and mold everywhere. We stop before a particularly massive door, and he gestures with the gun. "In."

We obey. The cell is roomy, if forbidding; bare stone walls stretch up to a high ceiling invisible in the dark. The door's solid wood, with a single barred window several meters up the expanse of stone wall. There's hardly any light, but I can make out a couple of mattresses, and several jugs of water and what looks like bread in one corner. Imprisonment, then, not death. Things are looking up.

"Sit there," the mysterious stranger commands. We sit on the pallets, and he says, almost apologetically, "You'll be kept here for three days, until the Concours de Cuisine Intereuropéen is over. It's not the Ritz, but I hope you don't find it too inconvenient. I'll be back to let you out."

"Monsieur, you're aware that you're committing a crime. It's not too late to…"

"_Madame_," our captor retorts icily, "I am acting against the orders of my boss, who wanted me to arrange for you to meet with an…" he appears to be uncomfortable saying it, "…unfortunate accident. I can't commit… I don't do that sort of thing, so this is my compromise. You're already very lucky."

"Lucky?!" Linguini's finally reached the end of his patience. "You call this…" But the guy's already ducked out, and he finds himself speaking to a closed door. A few moments later, we hear the rumble of his van as it drives off.

Linguini tips his hat to let me out, then flops onto his back on the mattress with a grunt. "Well, I guess _this_ means we've missed our train."


	7. Walls

Monday, October 15, 9:31 PM

"We can catch the early train if we move fast," Colette says with determination before the rumble of the disappearing van has completely died away.

Linguini looks up from his pallet. "You're kidding me, right?"

_"Sans __blague." _Her determined stare gives me courage. "We are _not_ going to let him win!" She drags herself up off the mattress, though I can tell she's ready to drop, and starts doggedly feeling the walls. As for Linguini, he actually stumbles dizzily as he tries to rise. That's only to be expected; adrenalin letdown can be murder. Take it from one who's spent the better part of his adult life running _for_ his life. I'd tell those kids to lie down and rest, only I know they won't until they've checked things out for themselves. _I_'ve already started looking round the perimeter of the cell, patting and sniffing at the ancient stones. Our captor has made sure there aren't any human-sized holes, as Linguini and Colette are finding out, but all _I_ need is one little crevice.

"Find anything, _chéri_?"

"Not yet. Colette, why don't you rest a bit and let me do the…"

"_Non._ And I don't need to rest. I told you before, pregnancy means nothing to the women in my family! My mother never even knew that she was _enceinte_ until she started to show, and she kept on working until…" I tune out the monologue; I need to concentrate. The scurrying of cockroaches, the feathery footsteps of spiders, even the different smell of a draft of air, can all signal passageways that pass under human radar. Not that human radar could pick up anything over the filibuster Colette is delivering. "And a week before I was due to be born, she was going to the hospital for a checkup because she felt a very small pain, and as she was on her way down in the _ascenseur_, I just slipped out between the thirteenth floor and the lobby, and she walked the rest of the way to the hospital, carrying me. _Et ma __grand-mère_! She was…"

It takes a deep sniff of the multilayered scents of the stone before I can block out the tale of Colette's grandmother and concentrate again. I'm pretty hopeful; these ancient chateaux are absolutely riddled with rodent networks. Most old castles are a mass of nests and colonies, inhabited by some of the oldest clans in the country, if you're to go by what Dad says. He says some are quite snobbish, and proudly trace their history back to Charlemagne or Napoleon. Our own clan's never been much for pedigree; still, no rat lives long without knowing how to sniff out and use secret passageways, even us. Although as a clan we prefer to spend a lot of time outdoors, there's always a need for shelter when winter hits. Our clan, though, has always held that a house is as good as a palace. It's all relative when you live in the ventilation ducts.

All this time I've been busily checking out the perimeter of the cell, sniffing carefully, but all I'm getting is the moldy and decayed smell of the stone. Still, I'm with Colette. We have to find a way out. I've fought all my life for this; to have someone steal it away at the eleventh hour like this is unacceptable. I'll die before I let it happen. I redouble my concentration, my efforts, and get completely lost in the moss-covered seams, the crumbling edges. Here's a graffito which someone etched in the stone, with a rusty nail by the smell. Here's a path taken by ants for so many centuries that their tiny feet have worn a path in the floor. Here's…

Ah! There it is; a crevice in the stone, with the unmistakable smells of a colony. I knew it. I try it on for size; perfect, and there's a passageway running away from the room. _Formidable!_ Now it's only a matter of time before I can get the key and let them out.

Still smiling, I look back at Linguini and Colette, bursting with my good news. Only then do I realize that Colette's monologue has run down; my search must have taken longer than I thought. It takes me a moment to find them. They're not searching any more, and are sitting dispiritedly on Colette's mattress, wrapped in a blanket, her head on Linguini's shoulder.

"Hey!" Running up to them, I tug on Linguini's pant leg. No point his thinking I've deserted them. "Come over here a minute." I point to the dark corner where the hole is.

"I'm not hungry, Little Chef."

Boy, he can be obtuse when he's tired. Although, now that he mentions it, he should eat – her, too. I tug again, insistently, letting him know I won't take no for an answer. "Never mind that. Come on a minute! I want to show you something!"

He rises, stumblingly, reluctantly, but he rises. I wanted her to rest, but she follows, a trace of curiosity in her sleepy eyes. Making sure they can see me, I move slowly towards the passage, pointing it out.

"Oh!" Colette breathes, and Linguini's eyes widen. His expression is a strange mixture of pleasure and sadness.

"I'm gonna go get help," I gesture, "and I want _you_ to get some _rest_ while I'm gone. Capiche?"

Linguini looks down the passageway. "I understand, Little Chef," he says, slowly. "You go on ahead, and we'll – we'll be just fine. No sense none of us making it to the contest."

_Merde!_ I clap a hand to my forehead in rank frustration. If he wasn't dead on his feet already, I'd bite him. After all we've been through together, he thinks I'd up and _leave_ him? Like _this_?

As if that wasn't enough, my idiot friend is still waffling on. "Try to get a hold of Ego. He'll know what to do, and…"

"SHADDAP!" I find myself yelling. I'm about to vent my anger further when I see Colette's smile. Well, at least _she_ never doubted me. "Can you _believe_ this guy?" I gesticulate furiously. "_Where_ does he get the idea that I'd just _go_ and _leave_ you here?"

Her grin is wry. "He just believes you deserve better than to be locked up in here, _mon__ Chef_," she explains gently. "He really wants you to be free, don't you, chéri?"

Linguini turns bemused eyes on her. "Huh? Sure I do, but what…"

Her voice is a little firmer, forcing him to pay attention. "You don't think he'd leave us, do you?"

Linguini looks at me. "Of course he should leave and…" At my angry gaze, he suddenly sees the light. "Oh, I'm sorry, Little Chef! Uh—I don't mean you'd desert us, I just meant you—well, you ought to be out of here, that's all, no sense the three of us staying locked up…"

I raise a finger to my lips for silence and mime going out, getting the key, and getting us all out of here in short order.

"You can do that, Little Chef?" Linguini smiles delightedly, reaching out to me. "Gee, thanks—"

That's as far as he gets. I don't bite him, but I do slap his hand with my tail. He's _thanking_ me for trying to save him and Colette? Sometimes I think he _is_ as dumb as he looks. "Shut up." I put a finger to my lips. "Just wish me luck."

I hold out a front paw and he gives me a high-five in the form of a finger, as he has so many times when I hand him a dish at La Ratatouille. As our hands touch, our eyes meet as usual; I start to give him my automatic, cocky grin, only this time there's something else in his expressive eyes, and the intensity of emotion sends a shiver through me. Tearing my gaze away, I share a smile with Colette. "Get some sleep," I admonish, miming going to bed. She nods in agreement and, I hope, acquiescence.

"_Bonne nuit, mon Chef, et bonne chance_," she wishes me, and then I'm off, running down the corridor, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

* * *

Monday, October 15, 10:31 PM 

My eyes adapt quickly enough. It's mossy and damp, and, unlike more modern buildings, almost completely dark. I'm reminded again of how different construction used to be before plumbing and electricity were invented. Medieval buildings are a nightmare for colonies because they don't have any of that infrastructure; no nice crawl space, no heating ducts, no plumbing, no big pipes, just stone and the teeth to erode it. In the upper-class rooms, at least, they sprung for wood paneling or wainscoting and tapestries. Then again, the spaces between the stones make up for the deficiency…

I'm still running along, searching. Once, twice, three times I poke my nose, hopefully, into a human-sized room, but each time I find a cell like the one I left. For a while, it seems hopeless, but I won't give up. I scurry down the tunnels, sniffing at intersections, searching, searching for fresher air and freedom.

And something begins to change, indefinably. My journey starts to take me up, gradually at first, then more surely. A slight incline in the rough stone beneath my paws – I have to go on all fours here, no room for anything else – gives way to a tunnel so steep it's almost vertical. A fork in the road, another fork, and now I don't need to stop and sniff anymore, the scent of fresh air and night-dew calling me as surely as a siren song, and I'm running now, running and running and then—

I'm out.

It's dark and cool and peaceful in the wild and overgrown garden, the moon hanging low overhead and touching the tips of the grass spears with silver, the moisture soft and comforting on the wind. I just stop for a second, savoring freedom. Then I take a deep breath, and for a moment there's nothing but the smell of that sweet night air, laden with a thousand and one perfumes: marguerite, intense, bittersweet balai, wild, delicious chanterelles that hide under the moss and in the green shade of the forest of pines and heather. Half-drunk with the atmosphere, I just stand there like an idiot, taking it all in. It's so different from Paris, and nothing like the region I grew up in. Everything swirls around me, intoxicating and inviting… olive trees, vines, mulberry and fig trees, laurel, all kinds of herbs, and maquis, everywhere maquis.

"It's not Paris," I breathe, "but it's so beautiful." I close my eyes for a moment before I have to go back into the chateau. "Really beaut—OOF!"

A ten-ton shape slams into me from behind and I'm knocked to the ground. "What the…" I open my eyes, the breath knocked out of me, to see a yawning mouth – a rat's mouth! – getting ready to chomp me in the jugular. Instinct takes over as I squirm, his teeth snapping together in what could have been a deadly bite. Far bigger and heavier, he's on top of me, a lead weight pinning me to the ground. He screams in frustration that I'm not dead yet, rears up, and grabs me in a savage bear-hug. I catch a glimpse of him in the split-second I'm at arm's length. He's fully as big as Git, but his fur is rough and wild, his teeth long, curving and yellow, and man, does he need a good mouthwash. I'm starting to panic; his claws are digging into my back, and that warm stuff I'm feeling must mean he's drawn blood. "You crazy? I'm a rat, you birdbrain, not food!" But he's not listening and I'm about to be slowly crushed to death. What a way to go – killed by a psycho rat…

Clinging to the edge of consciousness, I feel the world suddenly shift into sharp, painfully bright focus, the way they say it does when you're about to die. Every one of my senses feels heightened. I'm acutely aware of the rough stalks of weeds underneath me, the stars above, the sharp, cool air. I'm trying not to give up, but it seems I won't be able to help it this time. Slipping into unconsciousness, gasping for air, I reach out for something, anything…

My hand, flailing blindly, grabs onto a stalk. I don't consciously smell that it's _la belle dame de France_, but, operating only on instinct, I wrench it out of the ground and shove it into his face.

The Goliath sneezes. Roaring, he rears back and sneezes again. His grip loosens, and I'm off, running for my life, all four paws moving like pistons. He snarls in frustration behind me, and I pick up the pace. Oh, man, now I _know_ why I've never been fond of strange rats. We've all heard the tales of wild, savage males, the kind who'll turn on their own kind and kill if there aren't any victims around to quench their bloodlust, but I've never actually met one. Our clan's not like that, and Dad's never stood for that kind of thing from any of our neighbors, yet the fear still holds, and now, seeing it, I realize the reality's ten times more frightening than the fear. _Merde_, humans are right to fear rats if this guy is any example. If our clan was like him _I'd_ fear rats, too. I've got quite a good start; one thing about being light, you're almost always fast. I'm gaining on him. With luck I might…

"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"

I've run straight into a pair of rats. All I can see is their feet, firmly planted on the ground, and it takes me a moment to realize that the reason for my tunnel vision is that they're standing on their hind legs, like I usually do. What the…

Before I can do anything, one of them has dragged me up by the scruff of the neck. That's undignified to start with, but I draw the line at being eaten on top of that. "Hi." I get my feet under me. When all else fails, be polite, I guess. "Sorry to bother you, but do you know that psycho coming up behind me? Because if he's…"

"RARR!"

The psycho in question bursts through the maquis, growling, and I duck round the two military rats, only to be brought up short by the guy who still has me by the neck in an iron grip.

"Down, Sauvage!" snaps the guy who's not holding me, and I'm amazed to see the psycho subside, growling and looking at me like I'm on the menu. The rat turns to me. "State your business."

Now the immediate threat is past, I notice their military bearing, the sharpened twigs they're holding stiffly upright, their impassive expressions, the walnut-shell helmets on their heads. I've never seen anything like this before, but there are more pressing matters right now. "Thanks for calling him off. I've got to go now."

I didn't really hope for it to work, and it didn't. The iron grip never falters. "We can't let a strange rat run loose in our territory," says the guard. "Speak up! What is your business here?"

"I…" What can I tell them? My own father wasn't ready to believe that a human could befriend a rat until he saw, with his own eyes, Linguini risking – and losing – everything to defend me. I can imagine their reaction if I tell them I'm here with a couple of humans. "I… Who are you, anyway?"

The rat who's holding me draws himself up to his full height, although his grip on me never lessens. "I would have you know that you are speaking to a proud member of the clan of _sa__Majesté_ Dagobert, established since the reign of Louis XIV, home to the…"

Not-Holding-Me Rat elbows him in the ribs. "We're not supposed to divulge clan secrets, Dale!"

Holding-Me Rat turns to his companion. "I didn't know it was a secret, Chip! Miss Adelaide never said it was a…"

I forget everything for a second. "Hold it. Your names are _Chip _and_ Dale?_"

Dale rolls his eyes. "Here we go again. Would you believe it?" he sighs. "Our litter's the laughing-stock of the clan. Everyone's got names like Napoleon and Louis and Jeanne d'Arc, and our Mom has to go make her nest in a comic book." He grins wryly. "We've a sister named Daisy, another named Minnie, and brothers named Donald, Huey, Dewey and…"

"Will you SHUT UP?!" Chip snaps. "You're telling our family history to a complete stranger…"

I tune them out and try to think. Let's see, if a strange rat came into our clan, what would we do? The answer comes to me immediately and I look at Chip. "Look, just take me to your clan leader." What was his name? "Um—Dagobert."

* * *

Monday, October 15, 11:35 PM 

"This is the most impossible story I have ever heard!"

I shrug.

Though there's food everywhere, Dagobert, the clan leader, is shorter than Emile and thinner than I am – a dwarf rat, almost. Pickings must be slim in this part of the region, or maybe he's just ascetic. He's jet-black with patches of white around his eyes, giving him a wise appearance, and has the wavy whiskers characteristic of an older rat. His air of authority fills the room; it's reinforced by the presence of the slavering hulk, Sauvage, who's apparently only barely being restrained from eating me by the commanding patriarch's presence.

Named after the last Mervignian king of the Middle Ages, according to the communicative Dale, Dagobert is enthroned on an impressive golden structure that looks to have been a human-sized crown at some point in history, now lined with purple fabric and sparkling with the few jewels that remain. He's holding court in their clan's meeting-room, an underground wine-cellar deep in the bowels of the ancient chateau, which has an unmistakable air of aristocracy. They've whitewashed the walls, polished the white marble floor, and even found fragments of tapestry to hang up – out of the corner of my eye, I can see a baby rat nibbling on one and being cuffed round the head by his mother. Walnut-shell-helmeted guards with mighty teeth down to their chests surround the perimeter of the room in an impressive wall of muscle, and the rest of the clan, chattering excitedly, stands in a gallery of sorts behind me, facing the king. I've seen enough movies to realize that this is a courtroom setup. I swallow hard; it doesn't take much imagination to see what'll happen to me if Dagobert finds me undesirable. In the corner, Sauvage licks his lips.

With a glare, the small patriarch silences the murmur of the crowd, then looks down his nose at me. "You have nothing to say for yourself?"

In the silence, I should be nervous, I know, but sometimes I just get impatient. "Look," I reply, with as much respect as I can muster, "I don't mean to invade your territory. If things had gone according to plan I wouldn't even be here! I just wanna go find the key and we'll be on our way so fast…"

"Not so fast, _jeun_ _rustaud_," Dagobert commands. "You are fortunate that I did not have you executed out of hand merely for consorting with humans, as you have confessed. Our clan, however, is not so set in its ways that we still believe that humans and rats can never meet. My own dear great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, the founder of our mighty clan, was the cherished companion of Louis XIV, and aided him in many of his decisions. In fact, he moved with him to the Court at Versailles, in 1682. Ah, those were the days…" He shakes his head, then comes back to the matter at hand. "But a rat of unknown origin and uncertain pedigree, coming unannounced into our midst with an implausible story, is surely to be treated with suspicion and certainly not allowed to roam freely in our kingdom!"

"Implausible?" I'm shouting now. "Didn't you hear a van drive off? Didn't you smell gunpowder? How do you feel about some human coming into your home and using it as a prison? My friends, locked up in the cellar – are you _d'accord_ with that? Part of your clan rules, huh?" The crowd's murmuring starts up again, and grows louder as I go on. I fancy I can hear someone saying they heard the van's engine, but it could be my imagination.

"Such impertinence!" snaps the patriarch. "You are digging your own grave, young rat."

"Will you at least _look_ in the dungeons? You'll find my friends right there! All they need is the key!" I have an urge to tell this maniac he can keep me if he'll help set the kids free, but I dismiss it. Linguini'd have my head, they'd fail miserably if they ever got to the contest, and more to the point, _they're_ not facing down a Neanderthal with teeth that look like he's been saving up his year's four-inch growth entirely for this moment. No sacrifices. I want to survive, too. Besides, how do I know they'd know where to find the key? "What kind of rat attacks other rats, anyway?"

The crowd murmurs as the king goes red in the face. "You dare cast aspersions on my morality!"

_Just your sanity_, I think, but I keep it to myself. "Look, _Votre __Majesté._" Best be polite to the last, I guess. "We have the same goal here – me outta your kingdom, outta your hair. How about sending me out with Chip 'n' Dale here – or any other guards," I amend as a snigger runs through the crowd – "to find the key? Then you can throw us out of here faster than you can say _"Defense __d'Entrer__!"_

Dagobert ponders it for a moment. "_Non_."

"What?!"

"You had your chance. _Ça __suffit_. I have spoken."

He nods to the hulking Sauvage, who grins ferally and starts to move forward. I skitter backwards – I can't help it. "You can't be serious! I haven't done anything to hurt your precious clan, you idiot!" I figure the time for politeness has passed. I take a step backwards as the crazy giant advances. I wish I could have let Linguini and Colette out, I wish I could have seen their kid, I wonder what they'll say when they never see me again, I can picture the sadness in those brown eyes. I wish things could have turned out differently… I realize I'm thinking in the past tense already, the feral brute's slavering mouth coming closer, his eyes alight with the thrill of the kill. _Merde, __alors._ I'm a dead rat walking… how did it come to this?

Someone in the crowd squeaks, but I know it's pointless to appeal to them – a clan leader's word is law, absolute and incontrovertible; it has to be in any clan this size. As far as I know, I'm the only one I know who was ever crazy enough to stand up to a clan patriarch, and then only because he was my Dad…

_Dad._ "Death's part of life," he always used to say, "part of what we are. It's just somethin' you gotta accept." We had our differences, but I love him. I see Emile, suddenly and clearly, in my mind's eye, and I remember him and Dad running for cover that day when I faced down all those chefs at Gusteau's, when I presented myself to their knives for the last time. They saw me prepare to die with dignity then, and now… now, I can't bear Dad never knowing what's become of me, Emile jumping at every sound, always thinking, hoping it's me coming back… "_Arrêtez!_" I shout, with such strength that the incredible hulk actually stops in his tracks for a moment.

_"Quoi?"_ snaps the king impatiently as I turn to him, head held high, strangely calm as I prepare to meet death for the second time tonight.

"I want you to send a messenger to my clan in Paris to tell them how I died," I say with as much dignity as I can muster. "They live off the Rue des Carmes near Boulevard Saint-Germain. I want you to tell them I care for them. I want you to tell them I died with honor."

Dagobert looks down his regal nose at me. "And who shall I tell them made this request?"

My gaze fixes his, steel in my voice. We may be a mere peasant clan, but we've more heart than this tinpot Napoleon ever had. _"Rémy,"_ I tell him confidently, _"__fils__ de __Django__."_

It comes out of him in a scream: "ARRÊTE, SAUVAGE!"

_"Huh?" _

I'm stunned by the volume of Dagobert's yell, and even more stunned when, having ordered the crazy rat off, he turns to me with something approaching awe in his voice.

"_Fils… de **Django**_?!"

* * *

Author's Notes: Sorry for the long wait between updates; this chapter just took forever to research, first the history, then the geography, then the rat biology. And I didn't just want to post the first part, I felt it stood better as a big long chunk.

I really want to thank you so much for reviewing - 'Colette Tatou' in particular, but others, my beloved Perky from the HP fandom, Northof49 (who gave me the ultimate compliment) and Funny Girl for just amazing reviews, and BlackAerin and Agent 13 for the wonderful comments and faithful following! It's you who have made me enthusiastic about finishing this.

A note regarding the previous chapter: For those who asked why Remy thought of Emile when the gun went off, the answer can be found in this wonderful fanfic which I unwittingly plagiarized and whose lovely author later permitted me to: http:// community. livejournal. com/ rat (underscore) a (underscore) too (underscore) ee /20058. html #cutid1

Sorry I had to put in these spaces and the word 'underscore' isntead of an actual underscore; replace them and remove the spaces when you copy-paste, because ffn deletes a few letters, and deletes URLs altogether if you type them in the regular way.


	8. Interlude

Such thanks for all the encouragement! This is specially for BlackAerin who innocently asked, "shall we be seeing more of Ego and Emile soon too?" thus unleashing the Subplot Bunny from Hell. Thank you. :)

I apologize for the shortness. The rest is, in the immortal words of Gusteau's Corn Puppies Prototype, "Rrumming Roon!"

* * *

The clock strikes midnight in a wood-beamed loft apartment somewhere in the Quartier Latin. Rowdy laughter and accordion music drift up through the windows from the packed street below, clashing with the more refined strains of the _Dialogues des Carmelites_. The cream living-room is spacious and welcoming, the floor lamp casts a warm glow across the Persian carpet, but at the twelve solemn chimes, the lone figure dressed in black shivers in his armchair, hands clasped tensely in his lap._ Get a grip, Anton, _he tells himself sternly._ You haven't lived this long to go wittering on like an old maid. _

Yet he can't explain it, the chill that grips him and makes him shudder, causing the rotund brown rat perched on the arm of his chair to emit a squeak. He rubs its head absently, like a pet, then catches himself. "No offense, old boy," he apologizes, but the big brown eyes smile up at him encouragingly, and then the rat actually pats his hand.

Anton smiles and leans back in his chair, taking a sip of wine, as the rat helps himself to a few more grapes from the bowl on the table. "I haven't been nervous since…" He pauses, tries to calculate the years, and gives up, "…since I was young and foolish." It feels silly to be talking to a rat, but this young brown fellow seems to have appointed himself his personal guardian since his brother went away. And now that's the apogee of foolishness – the notion of Anton needing a guardian, and a member of the order _Rodentia_ at that!

The rat squeaks, and holds up the phone.

"What the deuce…" He looks from the phone to those encouraging brown eyes and back again. He has been thinking of phoning them – it's been several hours since they should have changed trains at Nice, and he might as well put that new mobile phone of theirs to good use – but he's seen no justification to do so. Personal whims aren't enough, he feels, to impose. However, if it's at the rat's insistence… "If you say so," he sighs with mock reluctance, dialing the number far too eagerly than he ought to, when he thinks about it.

It rings five times.

"_Allô_?" says a nasal, unfamiliar male voice.

Anton blinks. "I beg your pardon. I must have the wrong number."

"_Non, non, Monsieur_," says the voice. "You are trying to call…" he rattles off the number, "_n'est-ce pas_?"

"Yes," Anton answers, a slow chill of foreboding starting to creep over him. "What…"

The tinny, bored voice continues, relentless. "Belonging to a M. Alfredo Linguini and a…" The sound of papers crackling comes over the telephone. "…Mme. Colette Tatou?"

Ego nods, then says "Yes," belatedly. "Has something… occurred?" _There can't have been an accident_, his mind reasons,_ I would have been notified, the emergency services would have rung me…_ Hearing a squeak from the brown rat, hardly aware of what he's doing, he stabs the speakerphone button on the handset, allowing the rodent to listen in.

"Their luggage was found abandoned on the platform of the railway station," the voice continues. "We were alarmed at first, thinking it might be a bomb, but then we had it checked. The squad just released it a few minutes ago. Their passports and all their papers were in the bag, and…"

Anton crosses the room and snaps off the stereo system; it sounds somehow obscene. _Abandoned?_ "What railway station? Who is this?"

"I'm Etienne Sarin, station master of the Gare de Nice. When the bags were cleared of bombs, I wasn't quite sure whether they lost their luggage or whether it was a matter for the police. This phone was in the lady's handbag. When it rang, I, well, I thought perhaps…"

"When did you find the bags?" Anton asks briskly, and is surprised at how hard his voice sounds to his own ears.

"Oh, about…" More paper crinkling. "…three, er, three and a half hours ago."

He's on his feet before realizing it, rapping out vital information and barking orders at the hapless man on the phone before he realizes it. He concludes his information with, "Call the police immediately, and don't touch a thing until I get there." Waiting until the man babbles some sort of acknowledgement, he hangs up and reaches for his coat, shrugging into it and gathering paraphernalia – keys, passport, cash, credit cards, documentation. Turning to the brown rat, he sincerely hopes the stark fear on the rodent's face isn't reflected so transparently in his own countenance. "_Frère du Chef_," he addresses the rat, "I'm taking a plane to Nice."

He turns to go, but a very determined squeak makes him turn back. "What is it?"

As clearly as if he were saying it with words, the Chef's brother is gesturing: "_We're_ taking a plane to Nice."


	9. Night

AN: Thanks to all for patience. Much research. You are best readers one could hope to have.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 00:30 PM

I know the only thing predictable about life is its **_un_**predictability, but this is ridiculous. In twenty-four hours I've been threatened with execution more times than a president in a banana republic. Not half an hour ago, I was writing my will. And now His Majesty is suddenly my best pal now he's discovered I'm Django's son, and I've gone from "Those who are about to be eaten salute you" to being Dagobert's guest.

And so we come to be here, in the guard's room next to the cell where Linguini and Colette are imprisoned. I would have looked for the key myself, but he wouldn't hear of it. "It is an honor! My entire clan is at the service of the descendant of such a noble house as yours!" And so he's sat me down next to him and is telling me my family history while the entire contingent of his clan police searches for the key. Seems Dad – that's right, my "shut up and eat your garbage" Dad with the wavy whiskers and the voice that always sounds like he's got a cigar in his mouth – is descended from a legend who bears his name. I didn't know, and Dagobert insists on enlightening me.

"…your father, young rat, is the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of the pioneering Django III, grandson of Django I, animal companion to Alexandre Yersin!"

I nod noncommittally, listening with about one-half of one ear. The guard's room is made of the same stone as the rest of the chateau, sparsely furnished with a sturdy-looking wooden table, an old-fashioned desk, and an antique cabinet. We're on the cold flagstones near the door, surrounded by guards fanning out and meticulously searching every corner of the human quarters for the key. Chip and Dale are bickering about who gets to search which cubbyhole of the ancient writing-desk, while others are looking on and around the oak table and behind the paintings on the walls. I'd much rather be looking along with them than sitting here uselessly, but I want to keep this guy happy. I wonder if Colette and Linguini are getting some sleep. I hope so.

My ignorance must be showing on my face, because Dagobert lets out a theatrical exclamation. "Is it possible you haven't heard? Has your father not enlightened you as to the history of your great clan, founded by Django I, II and III?"

"Mm-mm." I don't think the sole piece of info my dad has told me about my ancestry, namely "Your mom was eaten by an owl, now shut up and stop askin' questions" is going to go over spectacularly well, so I shrug in what I hope is a respectful manner. Anything to keep this guy on my side. I wonder idly what my dad would say if he knew he had numbers after his name; I don't think he'd be too keen on the idea.

It's all he needs to launch into a monologue. "Alexandre Yersin was the glorious French scientist who first discovered the bacteria that was responsible for the Black Plague. This was in 1894. Yersin wasn't alone; he was helped by Django I."

The Black Plague! What had my clan to do with it? For a moment, I forget about the key.

"It was Django I who told him that the disease always strikes us before it strikes humans. Before that, people thought it was rats who were unclean – that we caused the disease!"

This is so weird. I have two friends asleep in a cell and a competition to catch and a mysterious enemy to avoid, and I'm hungry and sleepy and my back's burning from being gouged by Dagobert's pet Frankenstein, but I'm listening intently.

"Then, in 1898, his son, Django II, helped another French scientist, Paul-Louis Simond, to clear the name of rats! He discovered that it's not rats who cause plague – it's fleas! During the Black Death in China, he figured that it wasn't us who cause the plague because people didn't catch it if they touched rat victims who'd been dead more than 24 hours…"

"Uh-huh." This is all ringing a bell, but I'm too tired to concentrate much.

"Then Django II gave his life for a noble cause!"

I hope I won't soon be doing the same thing. "Really?"

"He helped Simond with his classic experiment where a healthy rat died of plague after infected fleas had jumped to him from a plague-dead rat!"

Even my addled brain can see where this is going. "Don't tell me. He was the lab rat."

Dagobert's whiskers droop slightly. "Well. Um. Yes…" The rat monarch appears peeved, so I'm careful not to interrupt again. "He gave his life for a great cause! But it was his son, Django III, who gave meaning to his sacrifice and changed the course of ratkind!"

Somewhat disappointed by the lab-rat discovery, with rising nervousness at the key not having turned up yet, I'm on the verge of tuning him out again when Dagobert's head whips around, his face right up close to mine, invading my personal space, fixing me with a piercing glare. His glittering eyes stare at me out of the white patch of fur that all but obscures the dilated pupils. "What's the first lesson you learn as a child, _jeun rustaud__?" _

What? "Er." I want to put some distance between us, but force myself to stand my ground. He's picked the wrong person and the wrong time for a pop quiz on clan rules. I rack my brains. "Foxes are trouble?"

"_Oui, ou__i_," he nods impatiently. I can feel his breath on my face. It smells of advanced age and decaying meat. "What else? Related to grooming, perhaps?"

The light goes on in my head – the only one of Dad's instructions that actually made sense. "Never, ever let fleas get into your fur."

He steps back out of my personal space, and I can see his smile. "_Bravo,_ _fils__ de Django!_"

And suddenly, I see it. Just like that, all his waffle suddenly makes sense. My head reels. "It's so we won't get plague or carry it, isn't it?"

He smiles with satisfaction. "That tradition, young rat, is derived from the ancient teachings of Django III. After his father's death, he moved out of the cities and discovered that the best way to keep disease away was to be very strict about getting rid of fleas. Our clan does that to this day, and so do all families of good breeding, including your noble line, of course, but there are some colonies of inferior pedigree," he shakes his head, "that ignored Django III's teachings, and continue to give rats a bad name, spreading diseases and causing us to be maligned as filthy creatures!" He claps me on the back encouragingly, opening up the places where that maniac's claws ripped, and I barely manage to stifle a grunt. He doesn't notice, though. "You are the descendant, _mon fils_, of health pioneers!"

Wow. I'm amazed, but this is too much to take in all at once. The information, coupled with everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours, comes crashing down on me; I'm overcome with an urgent longing to see Dad, to see Emile, to ask Linguini to get me an encyclopedia; I want to sit quietly at home reading about this with a thimble of hot chocolate, not have to process it fighting for my freedom in some Godforsaken corner of... I can feel myself fading, so I sit down before I fall down. I can't show weakness with this guy. And what's taking them so long to find the key, anyway?

My reaction seems to please Dagobert. "It is stunning news, _mon ami_. I do not blame you for being _bouleversé_."

"Thank you," I remember my manners belatedly, "for telling me."

"It was a pleasure to enlighten you about your great… _Oui, Josephine_?"

A big military rat with the obligatory teeth down to her chest stands at attention before him. These rats have huge teeth, I note numbly. Don't they ever gnaw? Then I perk up. They must have found it! Looking up, I listen intently, ready to jump up and get out of here.

But my excitement is short-lived. "_Votre Majesté_," she reports shortly, "the key was not found anywhere."

_"Quoi? Impossible!" _

"Unfortunately, _Votre Majesté_, it is confirmed," the rat reports. "Company A has scoured every corner and Company B triple-checked after us, and then Companies C and D made two extra sweeps. It is our opinion that…"

_"TAIS-TOI!"_ Dagobert thunders. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it."

_"__OUI__VOTRE MAJESTÉ__!"_ Josephine bellows, clicking her heels together.

He ponders a moment, then asks sheepishly, "What _is_ your opinion?"

Continuing as though nothing had happened, she says briskly, "It is our opinion that the human took the key with him when he left."

I close my eyes. It's over. I have no more strength left, and… With an effort, I focus on the soldier, still speaking. "It is our suggestion that…"

_"TAIS-TOI!"_ Dagobert thunders. "When I want your suggestions, I'll ask for them."

_"OUI, VOTRE MAJESTÉ!"_ Josephine bellows, clicking her heels again.

He ponders a moment, then asks sheepishly, "What _is_ your suggestion?"

Continuing as though nothing had happened – I'm getting the impression this is the _ordre du jour_ around here – she says briskly, "Our suggestion is that we resort to Emergency Reserves, Plan 23-H."

It's all Greek to me, but Dagobert narrows his eyes. "That may leave us dangerously low on… _ressources_."

I'm completely out of my depth now, and as I follow their conversation it just gets worse. "It is going to have to be done soon in any case, _Votre Majesté_," Josephine says seriously, "and I feel…"

_"TAIS-TOI!"_ Dagobert thunders. "The military is no place for FEELINGS! If I wanted to hear your feelings, I'd ask for them!"

_"OUI, VOTRE MAJESTÉ!" _

He ponders a moment, then asks sheepishly, "And what _are_ your feelings?"

"That it is an honor to serve a member of a worthy clan, and better to do so than waste the _ressources_ on the trees… as we shall have to do soon, if there is no emergency."

Dagobert nods slowly, pondering this, then turns to me with that unnerving, glittering stare. "This… this battle you want to go to…"

I don't question his choice of wording. "_Oui_?"

"Is it for the greater glory of the clan of Django, and of rats everywhere?"

There's only one answer to that, and it's surprisingly simple. "_Oui_."

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 01:30 PM 

After that, things happen so fast I can barely keep track. The table is dragged over to the prison cell door ("Left, Dale! That's right, you nincompoop! – WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! – NO, I didn't say it was _right_ – well, I did, but I didn't mean right like correct, I meant it was wrong, it was MY right – No, not my rights like _Liberté Egalité Fraternité_, I meant – oh, forget it, I'll do it myself…") and as I watch, troops of military rats climb up onto it and systematically start gnawing away the wood around the lock on the door. Now I get it. That's why they let their teeth grow so long, dangerously long – in case they have to fight. Or in case there's an emergency. Like this.

"These are the 'emergency resources'?" I ask, and Dagobert nods.

"I wouldn't tell you if you weren't from Django's clan, _mon fils_. No divulging military secrets, now," he admonishes. I nod solemnly, watching the unnaturally long teeth carve ever-deeper grooves into the wood around the keyhole. They're planning to chew out the lock, and I'm as astonished by the audacity of the plan as by how obviously happy they are to finally be able to gnaw. That's what Josephine meant; even I know that they'd have had to gnaw soon, or else risk their teeth boring through their skulls. And the happiest and most content of them all is Sauvage, the crazy rat who wanted to kill me, gnawing deep grooves and gouges into the wood. I can't imagine what it must feel like to have to restrain yourself until your teeth get that long – no wonder he's crazy aggressive.

Yet there's no wild savagery in the way they're drilling the door; everything's very efficient. It's hypnotic: a line of about twenty rats climbs up, gnaws for several minutes until they start to droop a bit; then they're promptly relieved by another patrol, and so on until the first ones begin again. I babble some kind of apology to Dagobert for putting them to any inconvenience – which he brushes aside with a kind of _noblesse oblige_ attitude – and sit back, staring. Relief and gratitude overwhelm me, and I want to thank him, but I'm mesmerized by the sight and the rhythmic sound of chewing. My brain is as thick as molasses. I try to plan what time we'll be getting out of here, whether we'll catch the contest or not, but my vision is getting a little fuzzy around the edges, and the floor is starting to feel softer and softer, and before I know it I've drifted off.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 01:45 PM 

"Nothing at all to Nice?" Anton Ego repeats stupidly to the ticket clerk at the airport.

"I just told you no, Monsieur," she snaps, with the acerbity of a true Parisian. "There's nothing before seven a.m."

"This is preposterous!" he exclaims. "What if someone has an emergency? Are there no charter flights?"

The woman frowns and turns back to her business, indicating the interview is now over. "Unless you have a private plane, Monsieur, you'll just have to wait till tomorrow morning."

Fuming, he stalks down the hallway to the exit. "Absolutely preposterous." Standing outside among the smokers, he wonders whether it's worth going all the way back home just to come back here at five o'clock in the morning. He slips a hand into his pocket, pulling the plump brown rat out into the fresh air. "Would you mind spending the night somewhere near the airport?" he queries. When the rat nods, Ego climbs into the Hilton Shuttle.

Anton watches his breath condense on the glass as the darkened streets pass by, lit here and there by a stray streetlight. He's lost in thought throughout the journey to the hotel. The odd couple of whom he's grown so fond, the gangly young boy and the aggressive, confident chef, have rekindled a capacity for affection in his heart which he thought he'd never feel again, not since… He pushes the thought away. And dearer to his heart than both of them is the small chef of the humble origins, the unique creature who brought him back to life. Where are they now? What are they doing? There's no doubt in his mind that there has been foul play. Aside from the fact that no-one would just abandon their luggage in the middle of a station platform, he's familiar with tactics such as kidnapping and sabotage from his days on the high-level international culinary circuit. Chefs got a bit too serious about their reputations sometimes, and… "We're here," announces the driver.

Bending almost double to get out of the low-ceilinged minibus, Anton shakes his head at the thought of life without these new young friends and his most unusual friendship with the rat. It doesn't bear thinking about. And how dare the airports be so narrow and provincial as to stop him going to look for them at once? "Private plane my foot!" he mutters as he steps down—

—and straightens up so suddenly he bangs his head on the roof. Stumbling down the few steps, Anton strides into the polished marble lobby of the hotel; without so much as a glance at the high-ceilinged marble atrium with its glass elevator, plants and fountain, he commandeers a payphone and dials a number from memory.

It answers on the first ring, the voice perky and bright. "Allo?"

"Hello, Pierre," Anton says quietly. "Still flying that egg crate of yours?"

There's a long silence. Then a squeal comes out of the receiver. "The Queen of England! _Mon Dieu_, I don't believe it! What have you been doing with yourself all these years, babycakes?"

Anton shakes his head. Now he remembers why he lost touch with the old crowd. But still… "Never mind that. I…"

The voice laughs good-naturedly. "Now you're all settled and established, no need to waste your time with us poor chumps anymore!"

"It's not that." Anton needs to cut this short before Pierre can reopen any personal memories. "Look, I need a favour."

"Of course, of course. I must forgive you, I suppose! We must make excuses for a happily married man now, mustn't we? Anything for you and René! How is René, by the way?"

Anton's head reels and for a moment his ears ring so loudly that the lobby, the phone, everything fades away. The ice in his stomach, the chill in his hands… he pushes them away with an effort, trying to concentrate on the phone. He can't conceive that Pierre never heard… What should he…

"Oh, hey, trouble in paradise? I don't mean to intrude…"

Anton takes a deep breath. He slips a hand into his pocket, and the warmth of the round body of the rat, who grips his fingers encouragingly, gives him strength. _It was in another lifetime, it was in another lifetime,_ he mentally repeats like a mantra.

"Hello?"

"Ahem," he clears his throat. "He…" Before his head can start buzzing again, he blurts rudely, "He's dead."

"What?" It's Pierre's turn to fall silent in shock. Then a kind of verbal diarrhea sets in. "I'm so sorry, oh, Anton, I'm so sorry," he babbles. "I never knew, you never said, you just dropped out of sight, all these years and I never knew, I should have asked, oh, Anton, I'm so sorry, I…"

" Pierre. PIERRE!" He finally manages to halt the flow of words by shouting. "It's all right, he's been dead for a number of years now, I just – I need a plane. This minute. Would you be so kind as to pick me up? I'm in the lobby at the Roissy Hilton."

The voice on the other end falls silent a moment, then hurriedly agrees. "Oh yeah. Sure. I'll be there in a jif." He cradles the phone.

A squeak sounds from Anton's pocket, and he shushes the rat. "I know, old boy," he whispers. "I owe you an explanation." He walks out of the hotel, and discreetly takes the rat out of his pocket. "Don't worry, nobody you know is dead. I was talking to a friend of mine, from long ago. We had a—a mutual friend who's dead now."

The rat looks at him, sensing that there's more. Sometimes he's as bad as his brother. But no—he's gentler; he nods, accepting the partial explanation for now, and pats the hand holding him with such a look of compassion on his face that Anton's taken aback.

"Thank you, _frère__du__ Chef_," he mutters, truly grateful that the intelligent creature with him is not prying. He doesn't think he could stand to explain further. He looks out into the darkened _parking_. "Thank you."


	10. Stepping Out

Dear All: As you have probably guessed, I'm writing Ego as homosexual (and how anyone could think otherwise, after seeing the way he strokes his scarf...) In answer to a reader's question, this does not involve any graphic details, merely a glancing reference to his past. You can ignore it. However, if you are offended by the mere premise, consider yourself warned. And I do appreciate everyone's readership thus far, even if you feel you cannot continue. Big hug to you. Yes, **you!**

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 04:15 AM

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Anton Ego hisses dangerously. "What do you mean you won't file a report?"

"Regulations are quite clear, Monsieur," says the Inspector of Police, a prissy, short little man with a mustache. He fusses with the buttons of his uniform. "24 hours have to pass before we file a missing persons report."

"You don't say."

The station master's office fairly crackles with Ego's anger, and the two other human occupants of the room huddle together in a corner by the still-dark window, watching at a safe distance. One is the uniformed station master; the other is a big, paunchy red-bearded man of about fifty-five, wearing flight goggles around the neck of a fleece shirt with powder-blue horizontal stripes. They watch as Anton draws himself up to his full height. "May I remind you, sir, that these are the chefs who will represent France at the _Concours de Cuisine Intereuropéen_? Are you prepared to risk their falling prey to foul play and forfeiting France's chance to prove herself the culinary capital of the world?"

The Inspector quails before the cold, hard tone. "Well," he ventures, "regulations prevent me filing a report until another…" he takes out a pencil and performs meticulous calculations on a pad, "sixteen hours have passed…"

It is clear that Ego's patience is wearing thin. "Regulations," he repeats, looking down his nose at the inspector in a way that has stricken fear into the hearts of better men. "How_ in_teresting." He takes a step closer. "Two persons of legal age disappear in broad daylight…"

"It was 8 PM," the inspector corrects, looking in a little notebook.

"…leaving their luggage and bags, even their passports, behind," the tall, black-clad man sweeps on majestically, ignoring the interjection, "and you do not even suspect that there has been foul play?" His eyes blaze with a chilling rage that few people have ever seen. "What kind of policeman _are_ you?"

A fine sheen of sweat breaks out on the Inspector's brow and he nervously fondles his moustache. "_Je suis désolé_, Monsieur, we really can't file a report, but I can put a couple of men on the case, have them ask questions and see if anyone notices anything…"

Anton narrows his eyes, feeling he's had about enough of this. "I see." He slips a hand into his pocket to stifle the squeak emanating from within. Snapping back, his posture ramrod straight, he turns on his heel. "I shall be taking this up with your superiors," he says curtly, his voice echoing through the empty halls as he strides out of the station. "Come on, _frère__du__ Chef_," he whispers sotto voce.

"Wha? Hey, wait for me!" The big man jumps out of his shock and chases after Anton. "Hold up! Just wait a moment! Where you goin', Queen Elizabeth?"

Anton hardly slows his pace. "I'll thank you not to use that appellation in public, Pierre," he throws over his shoulder. "And to answer your question, I am about to implement one of life's golden rules."

"What rule is that, Anton?" gasps the puffing Pierre, trying to match the tall man's pace.

Anton slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out his pet rat, seeming to be speaking to him as much as Pierre. "When the police fail," he intones solemnly, "go to the press."

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 08:45 AM

"Bonjour, _fils de Django!_"

"Huh?" I jolt awake. Where am I? What's going on – oh no! Realization's replaced by panic. I fell asleep! How could I have fallen asleep in a situation like this?

"Control yourself, soldier!" the old rat admonishes me as I shake my head and blink furiously, my claws scrabbling for purchase on the flagstones. It's morning. How long have I been asleep, anyway? Sunlight is streaming through the barred window, Dagobert is standing over me, and I'm surrounded by semicircular rows of smiling rats.

I scramble to my feet, stretching to get the kinks out of my aching back, Sauvage's souvenirs quickly reminding me that this is a bad move. When I'm finally upright, I glance, perplexed, at Dagobert's army, all smiling and looking thoroughly pleased with themselves and somehow… different. It takes me a moment to place what's changed about them from last night. Suddenly it comes to me: their teeth are normal size again. What…

Dagobert, shorter than me now that he's standing up, gives me a pat on the shoulder. "Care to do the honors, _fils de Django?_"

It's a moment before I realize what he means. A big rat hops onto the table and gives the chewed-out semicircle around the lock a push. It moves a little way inwards, and he withdraws his hand before the cut-out falls completely to the floor. My eyes widen in shock and realization: they've completely chewed through the wood!

Josephine smiles in satisfaction. "_Comment ça te plaît, Remy, fils de Django?_"

"It's – it's wonderful…" I stammer. Fully awake, I finally put it all together in a blinding flash of realization. They wore their teeth out on the door! "Thank you…" I turn to them, then trail off as I realize no thanks could ever be enough.

"Go on," the smiling patriarch gives me a small push towards the door, "Win your battle."

I look around at the assembled rats, catching the eyes of a few of them – Chip, Dale, Josephine – and scurry up the table leg. The big rat steps aside, making an expansive "Après vous" gesture.

Once on the table, I walk reverently up to the previously impenetrable door – impenetrable by a single rat, anyway. The wood around the lock has been eaten off in a neat semicircle so that the mechanism is now embedded in a detachable piece. Close up I can see the marks of hundreds and hundreds of teeth. Touched and impressed by their concerted effort, I cast another grateful glance at the rat clan, then place my palms against the tooth-marked surface and push.

The solid chunk of door falls off cleanly into the room with a bump and a clatter, taking the iron lock with it. The metal detaches from the wood as it hits the flagstone. I step into the hole left by the thick slice that just fell out. Standing on the two-inch thickness of chewed oak, I faintly hear cheers erupting from the rats on the floor; my full attention, though, is riveted on the beloved sight of two pairs of wide eyes staring at me. I can't tear my gaze away from the two young humans in the huge cell, sitting up on the pallet bed, their hair tousled, their clothing rumpled, both their faces speechless with shock and delight.

Linguini's the first to recover. "Little Chef!" he exclaims, leaping up and running to me. He stops short when he sees the door. "You…" He touches the frayed edge wonderingly. "You did this yourself?"

I have to grin at that. _Hardly_. Now Colette has risen, and comes up behind him, smiling like the sun. "I knew you would come through for us,_ mon Chef_," she says. Her eyes are warm and bright and loving and I'm reminded anew of what Linguini sees in her. But I can't take the credit for this. I hop backwards out of the opening, gesturing for them to open the door.

Linguini grips the chewed edge with his hand and pulls inwards. The door swings open easily. He takes a step out into the corridor – and stops dead at the sight of a rat colony. Colette lets out a small exclamation and some of clan's more excitable members turn to flee.

"Hold your ground, everyone!" bellows Dagobert. "These are friends of Django's son. They will not harm us."

Linguini's following my every move, and after getting over the shock of finding a colony here, so is Colette. Standing on the table, I point to the chewed-off lock, then make a grand, sweeping gesture at the assembled platoon.

Colette looks at them gravely. "_Merci, Mesdames et messieurs_," she says, very seriously.

"_Oui_," Linguini says after her, shyly. "_Merci_."

"What did I tell you?" Dagobert calls out, sounding very pleased. "Good breeding! That's the mark of any friends of Django's clan!"

Feeling I ought to, I hop off the table and gesture to Dagobert. Linguini, bless him, catches on. "He must be the leader, Colette," he stage-whispers to her.

It takes her mere seconds to regroup. "_Enchantée_," she bows gravely, "_et merci encore une fois._"

"Yeah," Linguini adds, "it's an honor."

"_Au contraire_," replies Dagobert, "it is an honor to meet the human friends of such a noble clan!" I'm just starting to wonder how Linguini and Colette are supposed to understand this when the monarch bellows, "COMPANEE – HONOR FORMATION!" The assembled rats flow like water, and in a second, they're lined up to the left and right of the door, forming a broad passageway for us to exit. "Go on, _fils de Django_," Dagobert yells, "and convey to your noble father that Dagobert XVIII, great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of the founder of the Clan of Nantes, sends him his royal greetings!"

At first, I take it with a pinch of salt: _My noble father. Right. _Then again, I think, looking down at the sea of upturned faces, why not? All these rats mobilized by the mere mention of my dad's clan... I'm suddenly overcome, and I have to blink hard. But I raise my hand in a gesture to match their farewell.

"Will do, _Votre Majeste_!" I call down. Linguini, who has been patiently waiting for me to finish my goodbyes, holds out his hand flat, palm up. I step onto the platform, expecting him to put me under his cap. But is this friend of mine sensitive or what? He doesn't do it in front of the assembled clan, but keeps his palm outstretched as he walks out the door, letting me stand there as everyone cheers. It's embarrassing, but I force a grin. It's the least I can do after all they've done for me. "Thank you so much!" I yell.

Colette is walking with us in the clear path flanked by the cheering rat crowds. "_Merci_," she says politely and Linguini echoes her. I'm hearing all kinds of cheers from below, and dozens of good wishes – "_Bonne chance_" and "Knock 'em dead" and "Take care". The military Josephine with the opinions and feelings is waving hard, grinning broadly with her newly shortened teeth, and I catch the eyes of Chip and Dale, arms slung around each other, Dale sobbing into Chip's shoulder with the emotion of the moment and Chip looking embarrassed but patting his brother awkwardly on the back. Then I look into the eyes of the crazy monarch, and he's smiling.

More rats flank us as we walk out of the dank corridor and step out into the fresh, cool morning sunshine. They follow us out into the garden, and stand there en masse as we blink, getting used to the light, then waving and cheering as we walk off down the dirt path leading away from the house. "_Au revoir_!" calls Colette, echoed by Linguini. They answer with enthusiastic smiles, waves and more good wishes and calls of "_Au revoir_!"

I can hear them long after they've faded out of sight.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 09:30 AM

"Wow, Queen Elizabeth," Pierre breathes, catching a dirty look from Anton. "I can't believe you made the second edition!"

They're sitting at a sidewalk café near the station, five daily newspapers spread out on the table with the coffee. Blazoned across the front page of no less than three of them is the headline: _Où Sont les Chefs?_ Below that is a dramatic story about the two chefs representing France disappearing without their documents or luggage. The story is a little more romanticized than Anton likes – he's sure Mme. Tatou will have somebody's head for the phrase "the gallant chef and his delicate pregnant wife" – but at least it will push anyone who knows anything to come forward.

Anton couldn't possibly eat; he slips his croissant to the fat brown rat discreetly seated on the napkin in his lap. "I may have lost my job, but I am not yet, thank Heaven, completely without connections."

"Completely without…! _Mon Dieu, Anton!_" Pierre exclaims. He throws his hands into the air in a dramatic Gallic gesture and takes a big bite of his croissant. Emile does the same, and Pierre glances over at him. "_Ça te plait, mon p'tit?_"

Pierre and Emile took an instant liking to each other. Ego introduced them last night, and the bluff, brash pilot seemed to find a kindred spirit in the fat and considerate rat. Not that there was much conversation last night, Anton thinks. He endured Pierre's heartfelt hug and condolences stoically, then ruthlessly cut off all lines of inquiry and conversation upon the subject of his previous life. Introducing Pierre to his little friend, Anton sketched out the details of his current life as it stands, to exclamations of surprise and interest from his old friend. Pierre has always respected animals, so at least he did not have to fear telling him the truth. The capsule summary will have to do, though; Anton has no desire to dredge up the past. He just hopes that he can find the people who first gave him the strength to decide to go in the right direction: forward.

"This is strong stuff, Liz," Pierre mutters through a mouthful of croissant. "And some of it's not even true yet!" He reads snatches of news aloud. "Luggage found abandoned… foul play suspected… search parties going out… police investigating…"

Anton looks at where two uniformed policemen are walking around the station, asking people and looking for any signs of a struggle, and takes a long draught of his double espresso. "That should stir things up a bit."

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 09:45 AM

"WHAT is the MEANING of this?!"

Chef Amarus throws the paper to the ground in a rage and advances on Cravant, who quails before the menace. "I-I-I…"

"I told you to dispose of them QUIETLY, without FUSS! Create a nice, normal-looking ACCIDENT! Now what is this? The competition will be sullied by suspicion, and the police will mount an all-out search!"

"S-s-s-suspicion won't attach itself to you, Chef Amarus…" Cravant blibbers. "There's nothing t-t-t-to link you to…"

"NONSENSE!" Amarus glares at him. "At this level of competition, those who challenge others for the title are ALL suspect!" He takes a deep breath. "At least suspicion will fall upon all the chefs equally." This idea seems to calm him somewhat, and Cravant breathes a sigh of relief. "You made it look convincing, at least?"

Cravant freezes.

Amarus stops in his tracks, and slowly turns to his assistant. "Answer me," he says softly, and his quiet tone sends shivers up Cravant's spine.

"I-I-I-I…"

"Perhaps you didn't understand me," Amarus says, still with that same menacing quiet. "Did you stage a convincing accident?"

Cravant is nearly wetting himself in fright now. "Well, I-I-I-I…"

The tall, thin chef's eyes seem to be boring holes into him. "This is your last chance to answer me."

"I-I…" He blinks. "Y-Y-Yes! Oh, yes!"

Amarus isn't convinced; he doesn't move. "Describe the accident to me."

Cravant stares for a moment, then bursts into tears and throws himself at his master's feet, wailing. "Oh, please, forgive me! I couldn't do it, I just couldn't! I…" He's stopped by Amarus grabbing his collar and lifting him roughly by the scruff of the neck.

"You couldn't _what_?" he asks, his voice still soft, but hinting at a barely banked rage.

"I couldn't arrange an accident! Oh, forgive me!"

Amarus keeps a lid on his anger, humoring his terrified assistant. "What did you do with them?"

"I-I-I-I – I bababababababa…"

"Speak up," the senior chef coaxes, the iron fist in the velvet glove.

"I – I – I bababorrowed a ba-baker's van and – and – oh, please forgive me…"

"Yes?"

"I kikidnapped them and put-put-put them in a – a safe place." He gulps. "Until – until the competiton is o-over."

"Hmm." Amarus nods. With forced gentleness, he says, "Didn't I tell you to stage a convincing accident, a rather obvious one, so that no blame would attach itself to us?"

"I-I know, bubububut…"

"Did it not occur to you that when the competition is over, as you put it, they will spill the beans to every reporter who asks, and not only will we forfeit the competition but go to jail as well?"

Cravant gulps. "I didn't think…"

"No, you didn't, did you?" Amarus asks, at the end of his tether. "You didn't THINK!" In a flash, the seething anger explodes into violence, his other hand shooting out to grab his chef's torch, the blue flame blasting out inches from Cravant's face. An inarticulate cry of terror escapes the younger man, writhing in the iron grasp, then he breaks into long-drawn-out, high-pitched whimpering. "WHERE ARE THEY NOW?"

But his assistant is quite beyond speech, his eyes riveted to the threatening flame like a bird transfixed by a snake. The tall chef, though, merely tightens his grip on his collar and edges the torch a millimeter closer, rewarded by an increase in the pitch of the whining. Cravant is blubbering continuously now, tears of fright running down his face. Mors doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. "I'll tell you what will happen now. You will tell me where the 'safe place' is, and I will go and do the job myself… and you will live to see another day." He gives the man's collar a little shake. The blubbering increases in pitch and volume; his victim seems on the verge of wetting himself. "Where are they?"

But his assistant is quite beyond speech. Gritting his teeth, Amarus shuts off the flame, tossing the torch aside to clatter on the floor, and thrusts a pad and pencil into the unfortunate man's hands. "Write down the address. Now."

Shaking and weeping, Cravant finally puts pen to paper.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 10:00 AM

"Colette," Linguini whispers tentatively.

_"Oui?" _

"Do we have a plan?"

She turns to him, eyes bright with a glint of amused irony. "Right now my plan is to get as far away from that… that _place_… as possible."

We've been trudging through the countryside for a good hour. Kilometers of wildflowers stretch out in all directions; the air is so thick with the scent of lavender that I can barely smell Linguini, who grins at me in his hand as we walk in the sunshine. There's a bit of a cool breeze nipping at the edges of my fur, but I can tell that once the sun gets properly high in the sky, it's going to be a lovely warm day. Colette catches my eye, and we share a grin. It's funny; we're in the middle of nowhere, miles form any road for all I know, and yet the feeling of freedom after the dank, dark dungeon is making the three of us slightly euphoric.

"I knew you'd come through for us, Little Chef!" Linguini says happily.

This is a bit too much more than I can let go, and I cant an eyebrow at him. "What about 'Go and get Ego, and you get out of here, Little Chef'?" I gesture.

He gets the gist of what I'm saying and has the grace to blush. "Well, aw, Little Chef, how was I to know you'd come through for us like that?"

I fold my arms.

"Aw," Linguini gets even more flustered. "I _know_ you've never let me down, but…" Colette grins broadly, watching our conversation, and wisely doesn't say that _she_ always believed in me. She knows I know it. Linguini finally goes on. "Aw, you never _have_ let me down. I shoulda trusted you. I'm sorry, Little Chef."

I didn't mean to upset him, and I pat his fingers and smile. "Thanks, Little Chef," he says, comforted, and brings his other hand up to rub my back. His hand catches the souvenirs of Sauvage's welcome wagon and I wince. I can't help it.

Linguini freezes in mid-stride. "You're hurt!"

_"Quoi?"_ Colette raps out, and steps up to take a closer look.

Linguini exclaims over me as he gently parts my fur, and I look behind me in time to catch his eyes widening at whatever it is he sees. "Oh, Little Chef, your back…!"

"Don't sweat it," I begin, embarrassed – but then he touches the fresh scars delicately with his cool fingers, and shyness is replaced with relief as his cool touch takes the throbbing pain away. I let out a little moan of contentment. Linguini keeps stroking my back with a touch so tender that I tremble and close my eyes at the love so clear in his caress. I'm reminded again of the one thing I always feel from Alfredo Linguini: affection. He can't speak in public to save his life, he can't walk across a room without tripping, he doesn't know the difference between scallions and leeks, but _le bon Dieu_ blessed him with two gifts: to skate like a swallow flying, and to love more fiercely and deeply than anyone I've known.

Feeling warm and loved, I lean into his touch, but as Colette comes up and bends over me, he removes his hand. I feel bereft.

"Oh, _mon Chef_…" Colette's voice is sympathetic, her big eyes full of compassion. "I didn't know you were hurt."

I shake my head, smiling reassuringly at her. _Not really_, I gesture. _It looks worse than it is_.

"If you say so, _mon __cher __p'tit Chef_." She smiles doubtfully back and ruffles the fur on my cheek with one slim knuckle. Her love is different from Linguini's, not as soft, but sincere, giving and edged with strength.

"Who did this to you?" Linguini asks, his voice shaking with outrage. It's so not like him that it makes me smile. Shrugging, I point back towards the colony, and turn to him, raising my shoulders like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, clawing the air with my front paws, and twisting my face in an approximation of Sauvage's charming gargoyle-like grimace.

Colette's eyes flit from me to the no-longer-visible chateau. "You must have had a hard job to convince them you were not an enemy, then," she says contemplatively – bless her, she just saved me an explanation. I smile at her, and give her another shrug: _You have **no** idea._

Linguini's eyes are still full of uncharacteristic rage, but he tones it down when I shrug again, and smile reassuringly. "It's really okay," I try to tell him. Embarrassed at needing comfort, I gesture to the way he was stroking my back. "When you rub my, uh… souvenirs," I tell him, "I feel better."

Linguini looks at me kindly, hesitantly, his eyes wide with understanding and compassion, but he stays his hand halfway towards me, and I can see the fear in his eyes of causing me more pain. Colette places a hand on his arm. "I think, chéri," Colette says gently, "he's trying to say that when you were touching him, it made him feel better."

"Oh!" Linguini smiles, reassured, and immediately, his cool fingers are stroking the tender scars again, and my whole body sags with relief as the pain recedes. I smile up at him, and lie down on my side, snuggling into his palm. I stay like that for a while, enjoying the comfort, as we travel on through the French countryside.


	11. Pause

Notes: For excessivelyperky and her bon mots. You inspired bits of this!

For Mindy, who knows how to accept differences of opinion sportingly and with maturity.

And for Sheila. Always for Sheila.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 10:30 AM

"So spit it out, Marie-Antoine," Pierre rumbles in a confidential tone as they sit at the station table; a flock of birds takes off from their impromptu lunch on the croissant crumbs. "Anything cooking between you and that cute little redhead?" He taps Linguini's picture in the paper and smiles, remembering a much younger Anton. "I know how much you like redheads. I always said, 'Anton will marry a redhead.' And you did, didn't you?"

Too late, he realizes what he's said. Anton looks up at him with eyes filled with such loss, such sadness that Pierre is instantly stricken. "_Pardonne-moi, mon ami_," he apologizes. "I didn't mean to… I…" He trails off, mortified, unable to believe his big mouth.

Seeming to sense the grief and loss his eyes are revealing, his old friend looks down at the papers again. "It's quite all right, Pierre," he says seriously. "I've… pretty much written off… well, you know." He picks up his empty cup, swirling the remains of his espresso. "M. Linguini and Madame Tatou… and M. le Chef of course… are… they… They're…"

_He loves these people, whoever they are - and he's terrified of losing someone he loves again. _Anton looks so uncomfortable at admitting emotion, his voice shaking slightly, that Pierre feels guilty. "It's okay, Anton. I was only joking, I didn't really mean…"

Anton straightens his shoulders with a visible effort. "They're a charming young couple," he says, his tone slightly over-bright. "They…"

His old friend always was a bit too reserved. "They are dear to you, _n'est-ce pas_, Anton?"

Anton's eyes flit away, emotions too profound for words flickering in the depths of the black eyes. One of his hands slips into his pocket, petting the rat inside in an unconscious gesture. The tiny paw can be seen stroking one pale, long finger. Pierre is jolted at the glimpse into the damaged soul. _I should not have let him close himself off from the world all those years ago, from all his friends… _He's saved from comment by a high-pitched shout. "M. Ego! M. Ego!"

Anton looks up. "What is it?"

A young policewoman with a striking resemblance to the Chef's brother is standing before him, as her dreadlocked partner comes up behind her. Her voice is slightly squeaky with excitement. "We thought you might be interested in knowing… we just told M. L'inspecteur…"

Pierre perks up, and Anton slips the brown rat into his pocket discreetly. "Yes?"

"When they read the newspaper, some of the station staff told us they saw a pregnant woman walking off with a very tall redheaded man and a very short one, and that they went around the station. So we walked out in the direction they said to have a look around, and on the Chemin des Ecoles…"

Her partner breaks in. "…we found a spent bullet!"

Pierre mutters an oath; Anton is on his feet before he knows it, his coffee spilling all over the newspapers. He has to hold onto the Chef's brother to stop him leaping out of his pocket. "What?"

She nods. _"Oh oui, Monsieur! _We just gave it to the Inspecteur, and…"

He flings a handful of change on the table. "Take me to him."

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 10:45 AM 

"But, Monsieur, one bullet does not make…"

"I _beg_ your pardon? You receive information that a pregnant woman and a tall red-haired man were seen walking out towards the Chemin des Ecoles in the company of a third person, then you find a bullet in the Chemin des Ecoles behind the station, and you still refuse to take action? What are you waiting for, man? A body?!"

"_Mais Monsieur_, we're not sure that the bullet is related to their disappearance. There was no blood, no signs of a struggle. If we pronounced them missing and then they turned up, it would be an embarrass…men…"

But here the Inspector is forced to break off, quailing before Ego's palpable outrage. The tall critic looms forbiddingly over the policeman, radiating a terrible menace. "What more will it take? I swear, if any harm comes to them …" Ego takes a deep breath, visibly trying to calm down, "…if France loses the chance to participate in the competition, I shall personally see to it that your name is on the front page of every newspaper in the country as the one responsible!" Anton's voice drops to a low, menacing rasp. "And you shall have me to contend with. The public may forget, but I do not forgive."

The Inspector gulps. Then he gulps again. Then he turns to the gendarmes next to him. "Suzanne, Driss, I need you to put out an APB on the people with the following descriptions…"

Pierre can't help a small smile. "Still haven't lost your touch, eh, Liz?"

But Anton is palpably not amused.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 11:45 AM 

"We're a few kilometers north of Chateauneuf-Villevieille, according to the signpost back there," a feminine voice filters through my consciousness. "All we need to do is go south for two or three km and we ought to be hitting the D615."

"What's that?"

"An _autostrade_. We should be able to _autostop_ once we get there. Or perhaps we can call the police."

"It's kind of far, though."

"Are you tired?"

"Uh… I meant… for you…"

"I'm fine."

I slowly blink awake, working my way up through the layers of wild scents, finding myself still cradled warmly in Linguini's palm. Huh? Was I asleep again? I must have been. For a while, by the looks of things; the cool nip of early morning is gone, replaced by the midday sun shining down. The sun's not in my eyes, though; Linguini has the fingers of his other hand splayed over my face to form a kind of sunshade. I have to smile at that, and let their conversation wash over me as I wake up.

"…sure you're OK?"

"Of course, Alfredo. Walking is healthy when you're pregnant."

"But you're due right after we get back, and we've been walking for hours!"

A pause. "Maybe we could sit down for a while."

The rhythmic rocking movement of Linguini's steps gives way to a jerky motion as he sits down and seems to be leaning against something; then all is still.

I stir, gently pushing the fingers to one side, and raise my head to look around. We're on a grassy knoll with a fairly good view of the surrounding countryside; there are trees dotted about here and there, and wild herbs and plants are all around us, creating an intoxicating presence of kaleidoscopically shifting scents as they wave and rustle in the gentle breeze. Linguini and Colette are sitting side by side under a shady elm, their backs propped up against the gnarled bark.

"Hi." When I stand and hop off Linguini's hand, I'm amazed at how much better my back is; the pain's hardly there any more. I must have needed the sleep. My attention is caught by a sprig of fragrant herb; I run over and pluck several stems, handing them to Linguini and gesturing to his pocket.

"Hey, Little Chef," Linguini smiles at me, stuffing the herbs into his pants pockets. "Sure, I'll keep them in here for you. You feeling better?"

I raise my arms aloft like a weightlifter, grinning, then pat his hand in thanks. He grins back, and looks at the ground, embarrassed. "I'm glad you're better, _mon Chef._"

"So am I," is my heartfelt reply. Being better means that I can move around and give in to the scents that have been seducing me ever since we came to this amazing wild countryside. Determined to collect samples of these amazing, exotic plants – things you can't get in your average Paris garden market – I flit back and forth between this perfume and that, gathering armfuls of exciting herbs that make my mind reel and my mouth water.

"_Bravo, mon Chef_." I can hear the approval in Colette's voice. "I know there's a bird sanctuary somewhere around here, so the pickings should be exceptional."

Running back and forth to Linguini with my precious finds, I look at Colette over a shoulder. "How are _you_ doing?" I ask, pointing to her belly.

She smiles gamely, but something in her face gives me pause; stealing an appraising glance at her under cover of handing Linguini the herbs, I can see she's probably glad of the rest. Her answer, though, is full of her old spirit. "Fine, _mon chef_, and I will be even better when we get to civilization and murder the _salaud_ who had the audacity to try and kidnap us!"

"You'll have to stand in line," I quip, gesturing to match the words, and she laughs. I get where she's coming from in not wanting to give in to weariness: there's nothing to be done about her fatigue until we get to civilization, so 'what can't be cured must be endured'. Cutting my eyes at Linguini, I understand why he called a halt. I only wish… "Do you think there's still a chance we'll catch the contest?" I ask her urgently, miming cooking and gesturing at an imaginary wristwatch.

"I don't see why not," she replies thoughtfully. "It's first thing tomorrow morning, and we've still got the rest of today. Chateauneuf's only about twenty kilometers from Nice. We just need to get to civilization and call the police."

"I read a warning once that 'the police is not a taxi service', Colette," Linguini murmurs doubtfully, looking lost. "There was this leaflet when we were in school…"

She stares. "That's only if you're a drunk teenager who can't get home after the club! Alfredo, chéri, we were _kidnapped!_ We were _locked up!_ _You_ were _shot_ at!_ I_ was called _little!_"

Linguini's taken aback, but I can't help my lips quirking at that, and a snigger bursts out.

"Oh…" For a moment Colette seems about to explode into shouting, and Linguini cringes. But I form one hand into a 'gun', and then, in comparison, hold the fingers of the other hand a millimeter or so apart, and then just look at her quizzically. "Which do you think is more dangerous?"

"What? Oh!" Her anger fades as she sees the humor in it, and breathes a laugh shamefacedly too. "Well, he got me so mad," she explains.

Linguini stares at both of us, eyes wide. "Sometimes I think you understand Colette better than I do, Little Chef," he says wonderingly.

Struck by an impish idea, I wave Linguini aside imperiously, placing my bundle of herbs aside, then get down on my knees and mime proposing to Colette with Marcel Marceau-inspired exaggerated gestures of love and adoration. "_Épouse-moi, ma belle!_" I declaim.

_"Ah, mon Chef, mon seul amour!"_ Colette intones dramatically, getting into the act. "Alfredo, it's all over between us. I have met another man! Er—rat!"

She and I are laughing, but Linguini isn't, and I look over at him doubtfully. "What's wrong?" I gesture to him.

He looks at the ground, fingers carding through the grass. "Nothing," he murmurs.

She gives him a hard look. "What is it, Alfredo?"

"I…" He mumbles something unintelligible.

"_Pardon?_" There's a kind of steel in her voice that tells me he'd better come out with it straight away.

"I... you…" He takes a deep breath. "D'you think I'm good enough for you? I mean…You wouldn't ever leave me, would you, Colette?" He clears his throat. "If you found somebody better, I mean?"

Her eyes widen. It takes her a moment to recover from the shock, but before she can open her mouth, I explode: "Oh, perfect timing, Linguini! Any idiot with half a brain could see the woman's head over heels in love with you, and you've gotta pick when we're lost in the middle of nowhere to act like a lovesick teenager?"

He blushes. "Sorry, Little Chef, I guess I just…"

I gather up the herbs I dropped and stuff them into his pockets. "Deal with him," I mutter to Colette. I don't have time for this. I think I preferred it when my back was hurting to the headache I'm getting right about now. I reinforce my words with gestures. "For whatever reason, the dope needs reassurance."

Colette nods slowly, then looks at her husband. _"Mon amour_, I am not impressed by men. The way they act disgusts me. Most of them I would be happy to send to another planet. Although I am heterosexual, I was never, ever going to marry because I did not want to be owned by a man. I never wanted to be controlled by a man. What does it tell you that – despite all that – I married you? That I am having a child with you?"

"Du-uh," I interject, trotting over to a particularly fragrant flowering plant. The smell makes my head reel; I can barely gather my wits about me enough to pluck a generous armful.

Very seriously, she says, "You are different, Alfredo. Just look at yourself, being honest enough to admit that you feel insecure sometimes. I love you because of what you are. I could never find anyone better."

Linguini looks at her hopefully, holding still as I load him up with the last of my treasures. "So… you're saying you love me?"

"_Non_," Colette replies, a glint of irony in her eyes. "_Je ne t'aime pas_. I am just using you for sex."

"Colette!" Linguini squeaks, laughing, his face going red.

She leans over and kisses him, then flops down onto her back on the grass. Linguini joins her, and I'm pleased to note he's smiling in reassurance. "In ten minutes," Colette declares, "we move on."

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 11:45 AM

"Chef… Amarus?"

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't we… just… give… up?"

"JAMAIS!"

The Jeep bounces over the wild terrain as Achilles Cravant, barely conscious, slumps back in the passenger seat. His face is scratched and clawed, his sky-blue jacket and tie ripped to shreds, hanging loosely of his wrists and collar, his chest covered with the marks of hundreds of tiny rat teeth. Small bites pepper his legs, showing through the remains of his blue suit trousers, and his arms are similarly decorated. "I think… it was a sign. When the animals of the forest themselves defend them…"

"Forest my SPATULA!" Amarus growls. Achilles can almost feel the frustrated rage pouring off his boss. His face has fared slightly better because of his height; his clothing, though, is similarly shredded, the red and purple bites standing out on his lanky frame. "We just ran into a savage rat infestation, that's all. Why you would want to put them in such a place…" He fumes. "If I hadn't brought my gun, we would have been devoured by the miserable creatures!"

Achilles tastefully refrains from commenting that his Chef didn't actually manage to hit anything. He's too grateful that the blasting of the .38 actually scared the rats off enough to help them make a quick getaway. "Brr." He shivers at the recollection of the rodent attack. No sooner did they walk through the mysteriously opened door of the cell than a terrifying horde of rodents appeared out of nowhere, an endless sea that engulfed them, nipping and biting everywhere. He fell to the floor immediately, flailing his arms hysterically in a futile attempt at escape; his Chef, he had to give him credit, only fell to his hands and knees before remembering his gun. The trek from the chateau to the car was the longest journey he could ever remember making; some tenacious pests clung to his body throughout his retreat, their bites making him dance and yell as he swatted them off. "Eugh." Achilles discreetly massages his smarting buttocks, decorated with rat bites thanks to one particular pair, almost identical, each of whom grabbed a mouthful of one cheek of his pants and refused to let go until he pulled them off bodily. The strangest thing was that, as they made their retreat in the 4x4, he remembered seeing these terrible twins spitting and looking disgusted.

"I'll deal with you later," says his boss, glaring at him. Now he has time to think about it, there was one good thing about the rat attack: it probably saved his life by distracting the Chef from his murderous rage at finding the prisoners gone. But it's no comfort to his sore and smarting body, covered with rat bites, or his ruined clothing. He liked that suit, too.

"Chef Amarus," the sous-chef shivers, "I've got a really, really bad feeling about this…"

"Enough whining!"

The engine revs loudly as they make their way back towards Nice for the next part of the Chef's unspecified plan. Achilles considers telling the Chef that this is a protected area, and that the Jeep isn't supposed to be here, but having no desire to add a slap in the face to his collection of minor injuries, he remains miserably silent as they bounce through the undergrowth.


	12. Lift

Tuesday, October 16, 15:00 PM

The sun has come down from the zenith. The heat has abated, giving way to a soporific, humid warmth and a heavy, scented atmosphere. I look around and try, again, to sniff the air for the scent of asphalt. Linguini glances down. "Anything, Little Chef?"

I shake my head. The worry in his eyes as he glances over at Colette tells me what I already know: we should have reached the highway by now.

She meets his gaze with a confidence that's wearing somewhat thin. "We should be there any minute."

"What if…" Linguini starts, then falls silent. The very fact that Colette fails to glare at him shows how tired she is. I feel it sink in, his realization that if we've taken a wrong turning, if we are lost, there's not much any of us can do about it. He takes a long, slow breath. "Sorry."

Colette turns to him, smiling gamely, and opens her mouth. But the words freeze on her lips as the sound of an engine, buzzing like a bumblebee, cuts through the sounds of the hedgerows, droning louder in the distance. Not ahead of us, though – above us.

"Do you hear that?" asks Linguini, turning to us for reassurance.

The drone is definitely there, and coming towards us, I can tell. And by the way Linguini perks up, I can tell he's growing certain of that realization too.

But Colette is already shouting, standing still, arms extended above her head. "HEY! DOWN HERE!"

"Wow! A plane!" I'm unceremoniously dropped into a pocket, where I immediately start getting bounced around like I'm in a washing machine as Linguini bursts out into a flurry of jumping up and down and waving frantically. "Hey! HEY!"

"Don't _wave_, Alfredo!" Colette hisses, still standing in that strange position.

"Why…" he gasps for air, "not?" He jumps up and down again, waving wildly at the plane, which is circling, seemingly coming closer. I can hardly stand the noise. "HEY! HEY!"

She glares. "Because the international distress signal is what I'm doing! If you wave, it means everything's OK!"

"Well," grins Linguini as the pilot circles again, now obviously losing height, "it doesn't matter. He's coming down." Then it dawns on him what he's just said. "We're saved, Colette! Saved!" He rushes to hug her, laughing and crying at once, and she laughs too, but I have to close my eyes and dive back into his pocket, gasping for breath, as the grass flattens around us and the branches above us groan in the wind generated by the lowering wings and roaring engine, now close enough to buzz the tops of the trees.

Even though the kids are so exhausted they can barely walk, they break into a run, heading for an open stretch of grass, where the plane's touching down. Bouncing around, I still manage to tell that despite the din and turbulence it's creating, it's actually quite a small, private aircraft: white and silver, it looks barely big enough for two or three people. It hits the ground and goes into an abbreviated taxiing turn, and I can barely breathe as the overpowering machine comes towards us and judders to a stop, nearly hitting us.

Linguini rushes towards the pilot, who's already clambering out: a tall, thin man almost of Ego's build, he wears a blue gendarme's uniform, but beyond that, I can't tell what he looks like. He has a beard, that's about all I can tell. His face is half obscured by the flight goggles – and his body, now, completely obscured by Linguini's embrace. Good thing I'm in a side pocket – a shirt-front position would have flattened me completely in the grateful hug. Finally Linguini pulls back, kissing the man enthusiastically on both cheeks. "We're so glad you're here, Officer! We thought we'd never be rescued!"

_"Oui, merci, Monsieur,"_ Colette smiles, holding out a hand for him to shake. "Thank you so much for the rescue. I'm Chef Tatou and this is Chef Linguini."

The man shakes her hand once, then steps back, looking at the three of us. "So this is the famous team that is to represent France," he says slowly. Then he seems to shake himself into action. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get in! We have a flight plan to file!"

Smiling and laughing, Linguini and Colette clamber in. "Here," says the gendarme. I realize he hasn't told us his name yet. "You'll need to put these on." He hands them a pair of blue flight suits, complete with orange emergency 'chutes; with their all-in-one design, they look amusingly like baby onesies. Then he goes to the radio. "Agent Lacroix here," he announces into it.

"Aéroport de Nice," the controller's voice answers.

"I have located the missing chefs and am bringing them in." Lacroix turns to Colette. "Madame, if you have any messages to give to anyone, the controller can…"

But whatever else he was going to say is cut off as Linguini starts to put his flight suit on, and I'm suddenly enveloped in thick, blanketing darkness, with such a stench of dust and diesel oil as to effectively cut off all sense of smell, as well. "Hey!" I shout indignantly. "What gives?!"

"Oh, sorry," he whispers, and discreetly slips an arm into the flight suit for me to climb up. Out of the suffocating material, I cast about for a place to stay and finally settle for the warm little space between his suited body and the 'chute, attached to the suit with backpack-like straps. It has a good view, too. I smile as I see Colette leaning over the radio, giving a long message to be delivered to Ego.

…"yes, just tell him that EVERYONE is OK, yes, and that we'll be on time, not to worry, and… oh, well, that's all for now." She's paused because the Small flight suit he's given her has come to an abrupt halt below her stomach. Shrugging, she wriggles out of it. "Can I go without this – uh, overall?"  
"Absolutely not, Madame," the pilot shakes his head. "It has the safety 'chute, you see." He presents her with a suit that might have looked good on Pompidou, back at Gusteau's; it fits her belly, but is six sizes too big everywhere else. Linguini holds back his grin at first as she rolls up the sleeves and ankles, cutting a comic figure, but he needn't have worried; she's barely able to suppress her relieved, delighted giggle as, swimming in the yards of fabric, she straps herself into the passenger seat next to Linguini. They share a smile, and Linguini's hand snakes down to take hers. He reaches up to touch me, gently.

"Hey, we made it, Little Chef," he breathes, turning his head to the side. I pat his fingers, trying to smile in relief too – and come up short. It's only now that I realize it: I'm neither relieved nor happy.

"Yeah, we made it," I mouth, still patting his fingers mechanically. Why on earth I feel this way, I don't know. Emile must be right: I'm getting to be a melancholy artiste. Gotta get a hold of myself, I think as the plane taxis down the makeshift runway and lifts off into the shimmering afternoon air. After all, we're safe. What could I possibly have to feel uncomfortable about?

Tuesday, October 16, 15:30 PM

"Anton! Anton!" Pierre hangs up his cell phone, whirling and gripping Ego's shoulders. "They found them!"

The look on Anton's face as he turns tells Pierre all he ever needed to know about what these people are to him. Incredulity, joy, disbelief – it's all large as life on the normally impassive countenance. Impulsively, Pierre sweeps his thin friend into a hug and grabs his wrist, propelling him through the late-morning crowds. "Come on."

"What – where to?" It's amusing but touching to hear the normally articulate Anton so beyond speech.

"They just got a message at the control tower in Nice. Some enterprising policeman went out in his own plane to look for them where they were last seen, and got lucky. The woman left a message for you at the control tower in Nice, saying they were okay and lots of other stuff. You want to hear it, I'm guessing, so come on!"

He virtually bundles Liz into a taxi as she takes the brown rat in her hand and starts telling him the good news. "_L'Aéroport_," he raps out to the cabbie. Pierre's glad things have ended well for his friend, and he's really eager to see these people who have been doing the job he himself so shamefully neglected all these years ago. Well, he thinks resolutely, looking over at Anton, he won't make that mistake again. Anton is going to have friends whether he likes it or not. And his new friends had just better like his old friends. If they're all like the fat rat, he smiles, looking over at him, there shouldn't be a problem, but if they're conservative or narrow-minded… He has a hunch Anton's not 'out' to them. Why is that, Pierre wonders? Hopefully he hasn't befriended a bunch of bigots… Look at me, he thinks, judging people before I meet them. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. 


	13. What Goes Up

Tuesday, October 16, 15:30 PM

Something's wrong. I can feel it.

I don't know what it is, but I can feel it as surely as I feel the thrumming of the plane around me.

Linguini's oblivious, dead to the world, asleep on Colette's shoulder. She's kind of half-asleep, only there's a sheen of sweat on her brow that makes me hope she just holds off on having that darn baby till we get to Nice. This is really not the time. Especially as sundown is—

I stop short, my train of thought breaking off abruptly as it comes to me.

Now I KNOW what's wrong. It's afternoon. The sun should be on our right if we're heading south to Nice. But it's on our left. We're going the wrong way!

"Hey!" I scramble out of Linguini's pocket, grabbing a handful of flight-suited, bony shoulder and shaking vigorously. "Hey! Wake up! We got a problem!"

"Rphwzzzzzzz," he garbles, smacking his lips and rolling back and forth on Colette's shoulder.

"This isn't the time, Linguini! Get up, now!"

One eye opens sleepily, but the eyelid just slides back down again. "Hgwhrr."

I start to jump up and down, cursing as I feel the cuts in my back reopen. "Wake UP!" No response. "Wake up, wake up, wake_ up!"_

_"Hein?"_ Blast it! I'd hoped Colette would stay asleep. No use, though, she's seen me jumping up and down, and she raises her sweaty face. "What is it?" she asks, her voice tight and controlled.

Resigned, I move discreetly into her lap, not too worried to get careless. The pilot is a few feet in front of us – if he turns, I won't have much time to hide. "Look," I gesture, miming drawing a map. "We were in Chateauneuf, and we should be going south to Nice, right?"

_"Oui,"_ she nods, not seeing where I'm going with all this.

"Well then," I point to the window, squinting into the bright golden light, "well then, why's the sun been on our left for the past fifteen minutes?" She stares at me, brows furrowing in shock. "Because we're going north, Colette, and don't ask me why!"

The shock in her face settles into uncertain determination, if there is such an expression. Jiggling Linguini off her shoulder expertly – he drops onto the seat back and continues snoring – she gently urges me into the pocket of his flight suit and sits up. "Agent Lacroix! Agent Lacroix!"

_"Oui, Madame?"_ the pilot calls out, looking fixedly straight ahead.

"_Excusez-moi,"_ she says, raising her voice, "but is there a reason we are going north?"

The only response is a long silence as the pilot fiddles with his seatbelt and punches some buttons. Finally, he unclips his safety harness and stands, rising out of his seat and stepping into the narrow aisle. As he turns to face us, eyes shuttered and unreadable behind the flight goggles, I can see the sunlight glinting off a metallic object in his hand.

The uncertainty I've been feeling since I got into the plane solidifies into an ice-cold certainty, too late to do any good. _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_ It's the same shape and size as the other one, the same silencer screwed into the barrel _– He said he had a boss, why didn't you trust your instincts?! –_ but I barely have time to register it before he says, "Because this is the end of the line for you, Madame Gusteau."

The moment stretches and snaps. Colette blinks. "My name's not… ah, forget it..." Her voice trails off, and her hand moves to the buckle of her seatbelt.

"**_Don't_** try it." He jerks the gun in a gesture that needs no explanation. Don't move.

She freezes, then slowly moves her hand back to her side. Linguini, seemingly alerted by a sixth sense, blinks, coming out of his slumber. "Huh? We there?" he mumbles, knuckling his eyes sleepily.

"So glad you decided to join us, Chef Gusteau," the agent sneers – _not an agent, not a policeman,_ my mind thunders, _a trap, a trap._

Linguini sits up, taking in the scene, the threat. His mouth drops open. "What's going on?"

Our enemy spits out his words with cold, barely controlled rage, not dignifying him with an answer. "Truly, I wouldn't have expected an idiot like you to be the heir to the stupendous talent of your late father, but heredity knows no respect for intelligence." He pauses, his voice dropping to a hiss. "Unless – is it possible? Are you taking the credit for the work of another?"

I find I'm holding my breath, and it's not just the firearm pointed at me. I wish I could see his eyes. He can't mean…

But the thin man turns his gaze on Colette. "Behind every great man, there is a woman," he muses, ignoring Colette's snort. "Could it be that _she_ is the chef?"

"No!" His eye on the weapon, Linguini tries to throw himself protectively in front of Colette, finds he's still strapped in, and ends up flailing his arms like a windmill out of control. "No, no, I'm the chef," he babbles frantically. "Leave her alone!"

She bats his hand away. "I thought I told you not to defend me!"

"Sorry, but…"

"SILENCE!" screams the man. The pair freezes – it flashes across my mind that I ought to use a weapon to break up their fights too – but all speech is forgotten as he pushes his goggles up onto his forehead, and glittering black eyes look down upon us. "In any case," he says, his tone like ice, "it doesn't matter. You will both meet with the same fate."

Colette asks his identity, her hushed tone somehow carrying over the din of the aircraft._ "Qui êtes-vous?"_

He considers for a moment. "Why not. Mors Amarus, Genovian royal chef, at your service." He inclines his head. "Since I am not about to let some stupid accidental boy wonder usurp my rightful place…"

I slip unnoticed out of Linguini's pocket, hoping to get to the floor and reach the guy's leg.

"I have arranged for you – and the poor 'policeman' who rescued you – to have an unfortunate accident."

I clamber down Linguini's foot. If I can just get around behind Amarus, bite him, surprise him…

Too late. The beady eyes look coldly down for a moment, then with a shrug, their owner turns fractionally away from us, and with a flick of the wrist shoots one, two, three silenced bullets into the instrument panel.

Linguini yells. The plane yaws beneath us and I have to shake the familiar panic away as the sharp stench of gunpowder spikes up into my brain._ I've killed Emile,_ the smell summons the thought unbidden, but I don't have the luxury of stopping to analyze. Furiously, I focus on the floor vibrating beneath my feet. It doesn't help – I'm frozen in panic. Desperate, I grab a handful of Linguini's stinking flight suit and shove it up against my nose.

"Yuck!" Good. The diesel oil yanks me back into the here and now. I open my eyes in time to see the chef still training the gun on us with one hand, wrenching the aircraft door open with the other. It falls away into the void, cold air blasting in, screaming, sending me flying off my feet. I grab Linguini's trouser-leg, flung off-balance by the plane's crazy pitching-rolling motion, dizzy—a warm hand grips me gently, pulls me up, slips me into a chest pocket. I can hear the thundering of Linguini's heart. Head reeling with the crazy motion, I poke one eye out of the pocket in time to see the chef grab his parachute cord.

"Au revoir, Gusteau!" is the last I hear of him as he plunges into the void. I watch his parachute opening, bright red against the green French countryside, until I realize that from my angle inside the aircraft, I shouldn't be able to see it out the door.

It takes me a second to realize that the door is tilted at a crazy angle because the plane is gradually falling out of the sky.


	14. Deliverance

Tuesday, October 16, 15:37 PM

Linguini has thumbed his safety-belt open and is over to the radio before I can register anything. "Maypole! Maypole!" he screams into the microphone. "We're flight number – ah…" He looks around at the plane. "We should have been going to Nice and we aren't, we're in the culinary… HELP! MAYPOLE!"

"IT'S MAYDAY," Colette yells, as dryly as she can over the screaming wind, as she undoes her own belt and supports herself up out of the chair with her arms. "And is the radio even working? Who exactly do you think is going to hear you?"

Linguini looks at her in panic. "But we're going down!"

"COME ON!" She reaches out for him, patting the parachute strapped to her back. "We've got to jump!"

Linguini eyes her belly dubiously, then her face, which is beaded with sweat. "Are you sure you're okay with it?"

The plane shifts crazily and I roll my eyes even as I scramble deeper into his flight pocket. Dying in a fiery grave would be better for the baby perhaps?

She rolls her eyes as she grabs his hand, guiding it to the release cord. "Dying in a fiery grave would be better for the baby perhaps?" Oh man, I love that woman.

"Uh… oh, okay." They both have a grip on the release cords now. "Okay, Little Chef?" I button the pocket closed and stick out an arm in a thumbs-up. Linguini gives the pocket a little pat.

They make their way to the bay, holding hands. Colette grabs the doorframe, looking down at the countryside far below us, letting out a yell that's suspiciously like a cry of pain. I see Linguini cut his eyes at her, but there's no room for second thoughts as the airstream grips at our clothes and the earsplitting din blasts in, drowning us. The roaring wind howls through the cabin, threatening to pull me right out of the flight suit, the wounded engine's screeching making the metal groan and vibrate like nothing I've ever heard before. "READY?" bellows Linguini. "A-one.. and a-two.. and a…"

And then there's no floor beneath us, nothing but empty air and wild wind around us, both the humans screaming as we plummet through the sky.

"PULL THE CORD! PULL THE CORD!" yells Colette.

They grip each other's hands more tightly, yank on their cords…

And nothing happens.

I shall never forget the terror on their faces in that moment.

Where I get my calm, I'll never know. "Pull the spare," I yell into the void. "PULL THE SPARE!"

But Linguini's already resigned, his acceptance of certain death clear in his eyes as he looks into Colette's, and all the love he ever felt is reflected right there in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Little Chef," is all he says. His hand snakes up to his pocket to hold me…

Blast it, anyway. Digging my claws into the rippling, grimy material of his suit, I crawl out of the pocket, grabbing his hand and guiding it to the spare cord. We're still hurtling through empty air at hundreds of kilometers an hour, yet everything seems to be happening in slow motion. Bless Colette, her face lights up in comprehension, and she raises her own hand to fumble behind her, coming up with the cord for her spare 'chute. They lock arms, gripping one another's shoulders. She meets Linguini's eyes, and with a nod of agreement, they yank both cords simultaneously.

Nothing happens.

I don't often get so mad I literally see red with murderous rage, but I almost blank out with fury for a second. The dawning of hope on their faces, so abruptly dashed… That low-down, dirty _bâtard__!_ He must have sabotaged the cords. I claw my way across to Colette's suit to look at the 'chute. Yes, there it is, deliberately knotted and tangled up…

And then it comes to me in a shock of realization. Who better to untangle cords than a rat?

Clinging with claws fully extended to Colette's parachute pack, the wind ruffling my fur so violently my flesh ripples along with it, I yell in Linguini's face. "I'M GOING IN TO FIX THE 'CHUTE! DON'T GIVE UP!" Then I gesture wildly at the pack, miming repairing it.

His face lit up. "Little Chef… Do you think you can do it?" But I've already dived into the tangled mess. We three have no time for doubts – I know, from TV, that the maximum you can freefall was only a few minutes. And as I've no idea how high we were when we jumped, there's no way of knowing how much time we have left.

One thing about being a rat – teeth are your best friend. I sift frantically through the mess of cords, concentrating fiercely on straightening them out, Linguini's voice in the periphery of my awareness explaining to Colette what I'm doing. She screams at him to hold on to her; bless her, again. He's got to cling on to her and hope her 'chute will hold them both: there's just no time to fix both. Getting even one parachute fixed will be a miracle, never mind two.

Somewhere in the howling wind is Colette screaming to Linguini to zip open her overlarge flight suit and stick his legs into the huge pant openings, but I can hardly hear. My world had tunneled down to the task that'll save or kill us all. Wherever I find a knot, I chomp through it, straighten out the cord and retie it so that pulling on the line will strengthen, not weaken it. Chew, straighten, tie. Chew, straighten, tie… My paws are getting sweat-slick as I work, and I wipe them on the inside of the bag. The cords are nylon, and strong, but no match for a rat's sharp teeth. How many precious seconds have gone by? I'm not tense – I'm strangely calm, focused, with an internal clock ticking away what are probably the last moments of my life.

One cord done, now the second, now the third. Slowly now…

"Whoa!" Suddenly the cords snake out of my hands like living things. I almost tumble out of the pack, but just manage to hold on by wrapping my tail around the handle. Grabbing handfuls of the fabric, I dig my claws in and swing back in time to see the ropes I've straightened out already being yanked out of the pack by a force stronger than all of us combined, and the flash of a glance shows me Linguini clinging to Colette limpet-wise, legs stuffed into her pant legs, arms wrapped around her shoulders, flailing for me with one hand, looking at something above us, his shouts swept away by the wind, drowned out by the frantic whip-whip-whip of the cords unraveling faster than I can slow them, mingling with the rush of air and billowing out above me, and I'm overwhelmed with despair because the 'chute is surely flying out of control and I've failed—

WHUMP

The parachute opens completely. Colette lets out a scream like nothing I've ever heard before. A tug and jerk and our downward rush is abruptly halted, and the rush of air stops as though it had never been. All is silence, and there we are, hanging in the middle of the sky, high above the Languedoc landscape, swinging at the bottom of the blue-and-white canopy suspended above us.

Linguini's the first to recover. He whoops with joy. "You did it, Little Chef! You did it!"

"Uh… Alfredo?"

"Colette! We did it! The beautiful little rat did it! …Colette? You okay, chérie?"

"_Mon amour_, could you unzip my flight suit and get the baby out, please?"

* * *

Hey, I always _said_ the one thing that's predictable about life is its unpredictability. Seems the shock jolted the baby loose. Here Linguini was, all fired up about getting her this enormous bouquet of roses in her hospital room, and the kid pops out with the jerk of the parachute. I know rat babies just pop out, but I'd read human babies take a bit more effort than that. There's Colette for you, with her weird great-grandmothers. Go figure.

So there we are, swinging at the end of the 'chute, and Linguini's trying to get the baby out. I scramble to Colette's front and haul on her zipper, and she kind of reaches in – he has his hands full hanging onto her – and pulls out this little lump of baby human. He – for it's a he – looks all bloody and disgusting, but kinda cute, really. And no membrane covering him – that's what surprises me most. Linguini's wittering on – can't say I blame him, really.

"Shouldn't you hold him upside-down, chérie?"

"What? Why?"

"Well, they do it in hospitals – you know, to get them breathing…"

"Oh, okay." She holds the kid upside-down, and he starts to wail. "Now look! You made him cry!"

"That's healthy, Colette."

She holds him to her chest, and he shuts up. "You sure?"

"Uh, yeah. Pretty sure."

"Get something to cut the cord, Alfredo!"

For a moment I think she means the parachute cord, but then I see she means the umbilical cord still dangling between them.

"Can't this wait, Colette?"

She sets her jaw. "If we are to die, I want my baby to die_ independent!"_

"Oh, for…"

She looks at me. "Could you find something to tie off the cord, _mon Chef?"_

I end up doing most of the work, as Colette has her hands full of baby and Alfredo has his arms full of Colette and we're all still swinging at the bottom of a 'chute, in case you've forgotten. I fumble around and end up chewing a bit of drawstring off Linguini's suit. Scrambling around like crazy, I tie off the umbilical cord, and Linguini hands me a utility knife. Sterilizing it is a joke in mid-air, so I just go ahead and slice. A rather nasty lump of afterbirth, which I know some people pride themselves on cooking with, falls away to the distant ground.

The thing done, I notice Colette has only been holding the baby with one hand. The other has been hovering the whole time, to catch me if I fall.

"Can we give a bit of thought to where we're landing now?" I ask, seeing a body of water surrounded by concrete come up beneath us. Probably the safest option. I tug at Linguini's hair and point.

"You're right Little Chef. Let's aim for the lake," says Linguini, bless him. He always does understand me when it matters most.

The rest of the descent flashes by in a panic of steering and maneuvering. The burnished sheen of the reservoir's sunlit surface comes up beneath us, so fast it sends a chill through me, and I push all thoughts of too-shallow water and getting crushed against a concrete bottom out of my mind. We haven't come this far to fail now.

"WHOOOOOA!" is the last thing I hear as we plunge beneath the surface.


	15. Surfacing

Tuesday, October 16, 15:50 PM

The splash is a shock, but the water's warm, surprisingly so. For a moment I'm disoriented, then I strike out towards the light. I can see the sun above me, a golden disc rippling greenish-gold through the water. Bubbles surround me and flecks and particles flash in the sunlight as I strike out towards the surface, glad of the deep breath I took before we went under, hoping the kids had the sense to do the same. Far above, the collapsed-balloon shape of the parachute looms like a giant jellyfish. For a moment I'm scared they may be trapped under it, but I remember Linguini has his utility knife. He has his faults, but he's nothing if not loyal and protective. He'll have Colette and the kid out of there in no time.

The air stored in my mouth and lungs is propelling me towards the surface. I'll be there in a second. All's well that ends we….

I see the shape of the baby, swimming past me.

…what?

My insides freeze with cold panic. He's smiling, used to living in warm fluid, unaware that he has to breathe air now. His brown eyes are wide open, his tiny limbs striking happily out through the green water, striking out downwards, going smilingly to his death.

Oh man, oh man oh _man_…

I reverse direction and swim frantically towards him, but he's too fast for me. And too strong, even small as he is, should he try to resist me – I have to lure him upwards. Using a bit of my precious air, I make a noise, releasing a few bubbles into the water. They catch the light and he laughs, opening his mouth into the water, reversing direction.

Good. That's it. Come along with me…

I swish my tail encouragingly, hoping he'll be attracted to the movement. He isn't, so I release a few more of my precious air bubbles. He's lured me deeper, and my heart sinks as I see how far I am from the surface. Oh, come on, kid, please… The bubbles lure him within reach, and remembering something I was told once, I place my tail into his little hand.

The hand closes, latching on to it.

Thank goodness, I think, striking frantically out towards the surface, towing the kid behind me. I look back and am relieved to see he's holding on tight, and something in his face strikes me to the heart. The watery sunlight swirls in the flecks of aquatic refuse and plays across his laughing face, dappling his ethereally pale cheeks and shining in his wide, innocent eyes. He laughs delightedly as if this is some fantastic new game, which it is to him, of course. I take one last look upwards at the parachute and then close my eyes as I swim, trying to gather as much speed as possible, because I'm running out of air fast now, black spots are swimming across my vision, and I can tell I'm not going to make it…

Perhaps, if I just get close enough, I can at least get up enough momentum to keep floating to the surface. I see a shade far above me that might be Linguini, diving for his kid. He might find him, mightn't he? My lungs are burning and pain rips through my head. I'm fighting the instinct that screams at me to open my mouth and breathe water; my limbs are getting cold and numb even as I gather the strength for another stroke, and another… come on, another… just one more, now…

I can hardly move. But I can't give up now. I can't. I can't…

My arms and legs are still frantically moving as the flame of anoxia burns through my brain and I lose the fight.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 16:01 PM

Wha… where am I?

There's nylon under my head. Nylon.. and cement and sand. I can smell them.

I try to take a breath, and the air catches in my throat, and I'm coughing hard.

"Little Chef!"

"He's awake. Here…"

Something takes me by the legs and holds me upside-down, and suddenly I'm vomiting, the water in my stomach getting in my nose in this upended position, making me choke. But before I can register the discomfort, I'm right-side up again, and shivering like crazy; warm hands are chafing me, rubbing my back, but I'm still shaking.

Then, suddenly, I'm warm all over. Wet, but warm. I can smell Linguini, but I can't see his face: I feel warmth holding me tight, and I can hear his wildly beating heart, and a creaking sound I can't identify. Blinking, I try to focus. It's darkish, and next to me I can feel smooth, hairless human flesh…

…now I get it. He's got me cradled in the cocoon of his partially unzipped flight suit, holding me against his chest underneath his clothes – that explains the loud heartbeat. And that sound – it takes me a second to place it, but then I sense more than deduce that he's crying, his chest creaking with strangled, breathy sobs. He tries to clamp down on them, but they force themselves out, his body shaking with the force of his weeping. _Why would he be crying?_ my mind asks numbly, but I flop back, concentration eluding me. What the hell happened?

Memory returns slowly. I was in the water… okay… and Linguini must have fished me out… oh, no! The kid! Damn, he has to be okay… is he?

Forcing myself to raise my head, I look out through the gap in his zipper. Looking around – hmm, tunnel vision, not good – I can see Colette, close to Linguini, holding her baby, who's smiling, laughing as though nothing has happened. I sigh with relief. But then why are her eyes so red? And why is Linguini crying?

"I – thought…" he takes a deep, shaky breath, and I stroke whatever part of his hand I can reach. "I thought I'd lost you, Little Chef." He gulps hard.

Aw, no, not this again! He's crying – over _me_? I'm _fine_! I can take care of myself! Turning to Colette, I raise my brows, as if to say, "Get a load of this overprotective guy," but I see in her eyes how bad it was, the seriousness of my brush with death, and she sees me recognize it, and I subside. I'm too dizzy to do much, anyway.

"You stopped breathing," she nods, her voice hollow, and I shrug, helplessly, as best I can in my cramped position. "You saved our son," she says, simply; at a loss for anything to say, I let myself go limp, just resting in the cocoon of warmth. I'm not ready to move just yet; my strength feels sapped.

We're alive; that's good enough, for now.


	16. Total Loss

Tuesday, October 16, 16:30 PM

"Anton?"

Tall and grim, silhouetted against the crackling flames, Ego shakes Pierre's hand off his shoulder, standing as he has been for the past ten minutes, before the twisted, flaming carcass of what used to be a plane. _No survivors_, Pierre remembered the woman at the airstrip saying. Bleak, horrible. _No survivors._

Police scurry back and forth, unable to touch the blazing shell, radiating heat, but they all give his friend a wide berth. Pierre wishes Anton hadn't insisted on going to look for them after the distress call and crash report. He was afraid – rightly so, it turns out – of what they might find.

The wreckage was easy enough to find from the air: a plume of smoke, black and stinking, it stood there like a landmark, billowing black and noxious, high above the countryside.

No survivors. _Not even Anton, perhaps,_ he thinks worriedly, looking at the unnaturally still figure of his old friend.

For his part, Anton just looks, silently, at the black smoke twisting out of the funeral pyre. His tears ran dry long ago; he knows he shall never weep again as long as he lives. But he sees for the first time, as he looks around, just how ugly the countryside really is. The fields of dry, sterile wildflowers are crude, garish, obscenely bright, the grasses waving in the wind are disgusting, detestable. He wants to spit on the flowers, crush the grass. The shining sun is loud and vulgar, the butterflies flitting around disrespectfully as though to spite him. How sickening the world really is, how horribly ugly... The wind ruffles his hair, and he hates it, willing it to be silent and still. The stupid birds chirp their ugly song, stupid strident birds, shut them up if he could, stop their hideous, mocking song... The brightness of day is hemming him in, hurting him, making him claustrophobic. He craves the darkness, the silence. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be at home, in his own space, in the dark. The light is an affront to his senses.

The brown rat in Anton's pocket begins a keening wail, and Anton slips him out, intending to hand him to Pierre. Only he can't; the little creature clings to his hand, and he is forced to stroke him comfortingly. The sight of the full-bodied, uncomplicated grief pouring out of the Chef's brother is a strange jolt to Anton. But he can't process it, and turns and flees for the refuge of Pierre's biplane. "Take me home, Pierre," he manages to grate out. "Take me home."

Pierre knows better than to argue, and clambers in, firing up the engine.


	17. Transit

Tuesday, October 16, 16:45 PM

I must have drifted off again, for when I awake, a rumbling vibration around us tells me we're in a moving vehicle.

Curiosity wins out over tiredness, and I rouse myself enough to look up and around. Yes, we're in a car, and a luxury auto at that. Leather seats, gleaming interior trim... The countryside is moving past us at a fast clip, the trees and meadows zipping by the window, starting to mellow in the slightly cloudy late afternoon. We're all in the back seat, being chauffeured by a person wearing a cap. Who or what...? My question is answered as the elderly gentleman sitting next to the driver turns to look at us. I observe him unseen through Linguini's clothing. "As soon as the doctor checks you out, we'll have you in a hotel with a change of clothing straight away, Madame Linguini," he says in a reassuring tone, "and you can rest for a couple of hours. Then we'll drive you to Nice International Airport, where one of the best pilots will be found and brought in to take you to your destination."

Colette smiles at the gentleman. "My name's Tatou," and if her smile is a bit frayed around the edges, no-one can blame her, "but thanks."

Linguini, sensing my curiosity, surreptitiously slips me a card. Judging by its dryness, it must have come from the stranger. Holding it away from my face against Linguini's clothing, I read:

_M. Hervé Paul_

_Maire de Saint-Martin-du-Var_

Whoa. The Mayor himself is picking us up?! I flop back against Linguini's chest. I didn't think the competition was _that_ important!

"...put out an APB on you, you know," he's saying. "You were reported missing yesterday, and the search has been on ever since. I don't mind telling you we are very lucky at Saint-Martin-du-Var that you landed in our reservoir. Our little hamlet is going to be quite the center of national attention."

"Yesterday?" Colette queries.

_"Oh oui._ Although we thought all was lost when you were reported dead."

There's a moment's silence.

Linguini beats Colette to the punch by a millisecond. "Dead? How come?"

The Mayor expands on the tale, the fictional policeman who filed the flight plan, the garbled 'Mayday' that came through, the ruined aircraft with no survivors. By the end, Colette's face is set. "We have to go to the police," she says tightly.

"No," I tell her.

"What? Why not?" Seeing the mayor's looking at her funny, she covers by talking to the kid. "Coochy coo!"

As soon as the official turns his back, I sketch a map of France in the air. "We don't need to deal with extradition hassles," I explain, hoping she'll get the gist of what I'm saying. It's hard to find the energy to gesture, but I manage. "Tomorrow, at the competition – he'll _be_ there, thinking we're dead. We can _get_ him."

Linguini looks hesitant, but Colette nods slowly. "I like the way you think, _mon Chef_," she says with satisfaction. Noticing the mayor looking at her talking to thin air, she hastily raises her voice in a most uncharacteristic high-pitched tone. "Who's my _tout petit chef_, then? Coochy coochy coo!"

* * *

"Wow," Linguini says as we walk into our hotel suite.

I must say, the _mairie_ of St-Martin-du-Var has done us proud. They've provided Linguini and Colette with a bowl of fruit, and not one but several selections of fresh clothing, many with compliment cards from clothing stores attached. There's even a pack of disposable diapers and things for the kid from a local baby boutique. Colette ignores them, hands the kid to Linguini and starts to strip off her flight suit, then recoils, looking down at her chest. "Eugh! There's sticky _stuff_ coming out of me!"

Linguini quickly holds the baby (who's staring wide-eyed at the strange surroundings) out to her. "That's colostrum, Colette. Quick, give him some! It's very good for him." She glares. "No, really. It's full of protein and stuff, and it helps the immune system..."

"Oh, okay." She grabs her son and heir and stuffs him rather ungracefully into the folds of the flight suit, raising him discreetly to her breast under the clothing with a look that says _This better work._ Then her expression changes to delight. "How about that! He's cleaning up all that stuff for me!"

Linguini gives the grin of the expert. "Cool, huh? No milk to heat up, no bottles to wash – just plug him in and go."

"I feel like an electrical outlet," she mutters, not without humor, switching sides under cover of the baggy denim.

"Or a nurturing goddess."

Her eyes sparkle, then narrow. "Where'd you learn all this stuff, anyway?"

Linguini looks at the floor. "I used to volunteer at a maternity ward," he mumbles. When she stares, he says defensively, "I _like_ babies." He stays silent for a moment, and starts, "How come you..."

She guesses the rest of the sentence, though he's trailed off. "How come I'm not all bursting with maternal knowledge?"

He looks kind of nervous as he strips off the wet, bedraggled suit. "Uh, yeah, but you don't have to answer if you don't..."

"It's okay," she reassures. "I hated the whole cliché – '_maman_ takes care of baby while _papa_ goes off to work' – so I ran the other way whenever people started going all goo-goo eyed over the Miracle of Motherhood. Never thought I'd meet a guy I'd actually want to have a baby with." She switches sides, then does a double-take. "You used to volunteer at a _maternity_ ward?" He nods sheepishly. "When was this?"

"Uh. I dunno. Five, six years ago maybe?"

She shakes her head, smiling in wonderment, and turns to me as though to make sure she has a witness. "See, Chef, I knew he wasn't like other men! What kind of teenage boy volunteers at a maternity ward?"

I notice Linguini's embarrassed. He stares at the floor. "I like kids," he mumbles. "The clinic had a lot of single moms, and I..." He seems about to go on, but breaks off. "I just like babies."

Raising her eyebrows, Colette sees she's touched a nerve. But it's not the time or place, so she – sensibly, in my opinion – lightens the mood, giving him this _look_ like she wants to object just to be perverse. "Of course, this breastfeeding thing is great for you! You get to sleep all night and it's me who has to wake up for the feedings."

Linguini looks nonplussed for a moment, then regroups. "We could use bottles too, and take turns... or how about you handle him from the waist up, I'll handle him from the waist down?"

"Perfect," she says, pulling the kid out from the folds of material and handing him to Linguini. "Clean him up. I'm taking a shower." She disappears cheerfully into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Linguini looks ruefully down at his soiled clothing. Then he looks up at me. "Whadda _you_ laughing at?"

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 17:00 PM

Pierre pats the brown rat, sitting next to him in the co-pilot's seat as the plane buzzes slowly in a broad circle, turning back to Nice to refuel and then on to Paris. The rat is sobbing, and Pierre shakes his head at how this whole thing turned out. He would have taken any outcome over this. First to find that Anton has lived in bereavement all these years, and now to watch him shut down again, before his eyes – His knuckles tighten on the joystick. He knows his friend isn't the type to do anything foolish, but he wonders whether there is anything that will be able to reach him after this.

"There, there, _mon ami_." He gives the weeping little creature a gentle rub on the shoulder. "I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a brother. I'm so sorry."

The rat looks up at him, gesturing at an imaginary someone much thinner than himself, then encircles the phantom figure with his arms, holding empty air. Pierre finds his own eyes burning as the rat breaks into renewed sobs.

"Calling C12810." The air controller – the same one who first gave him the grim news – cuts tinnily into his thoughts, her voice grating and strident in Pierre's headphones. "Calling C12810." The very sound of her voice makes his insides clench, but he consoles himself with the thought that it can't be more bad news; there's no more bad news left to give.

"Yes, what is it?" he hisses into the throat-mike, hoping not to disturb Anton, who has fallen into an exhausted doze in the passenger seat behind him.

And what she tells him is not bad news at all.

His mouth drops open as she tells him of the mistake, of the rescue, of the pickup, and apologizes profusely for the incorrect information of a while ago. She concludes by telling him that his 'party' will be at the Nice airport in a few hours to catch a plane to take them to Genovia.

"What time did you say they'd be at Nice International?"

"7 PM, Monsieur."

"You owe me for that last misinformation," he whispers. "If what you say is true this time, then the only pilot who's taking them to Genovia is _moi_."

"But Monsieur—"

"Arrange it," he says firmly, and cuts off the connection.

Pierre thinks furiously, circling again. The controller's been wrong before; there's no way he's going to tell his friend what he's just heard, only to see his hopes dashed again if what she said is inaccurate. A blow like that really would kill Anton. He'll go and – if her words are true – let him see for himself.

Hmm. Anton might not survive it, but he doesn't think an infusion of hope – even if it turns out to be false hope – would hurt the little fellow crying his eyes out next to him. "_Mon __petit_," he turns to the rat, "I have something to tell you, but don't get your hopes up, okay?"

The little one nods attentively.

Pierre tells him what he's heard, and watches his tears dry up, his face light up with hope, and is careful to add, "But all we know is that he _may_ be alive. I'm not sure these even are the right people, or that your brother is with them." Even as he says it, he realizes the cruelty of it, that if the rat chef is dead, if only the humans are alive, no-one will see the news as fit to announce. "I'm afraid to tell Anton until I know if it's true."

The rat seems to be asking why.

Pierre wonders how best to put this. "Look," he whispers, checking to see that his friend is still asleep, "a long time ago, more than ten years, Anton lost his father, then his mother, then his – I guess you'd call it his mate – in a very short time. He never let us comfort him, he cut himself off from all his friends, he lived all alone for years with a broken heart, and so his soul never healed, you see?"

The small head nods politely, but the question is still there.

Pierre sighs, trying to explain. "When you get your heart broken so many times, one after the other, it doesn't heal properly. His heart's more fragile than yours. I think it's safe to tell you because, if _you_ get your hopes up and then disappointed, you may get hurt, but..." the little one nods, "...but it won't kill you." He steals a glance backwards again. "I'm not so sure about him."

The compassion in the big eyes, as the brown rat looks back at the sleeping critic, tells Pierre that the little one probably understands better than most humans.

* * *


	18. Final Preparations

I want to thank you all for staying so patient with this. I'm following several WiPs too, and they frustrate me to death! Had to get over a major plot stumbling-block, but now that it's cleared up, things should move better than they have been. And thank you so much for everyone who pestered me to update. It does help.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 17:30 PM

I hadn't realized it, but I'm starving. Linguini, noticing me eyeing the grapes, brings me some to where I'm lying on the bed – I couldn't walk all the way to the table right now if you paid me – and I munch, relax and watch my friend put his son on the bed, then expertly clean up the mess and change the diaper like a pro. Flat on his back, the kid turns his head, looks blurrily at me and reaches out, and I bestir myself to slip a hand into his. He latches on again, clutching my arm, and I meet Linguini's eyes, looking up at me and smiling. "Hi, godfather," he murmurs, and I turn away to hide my smile. Maybe this baby thing will work out okay after all.

When I've eaten, I feel a little better, and the first thing I do is clamber across the bed and over to my priceless treasures, the herbs in Linguini's now-discarded clothing, lying in a heap on the coverlet. "Linguini! Over here." Obediently, he comes over and sits next to me and the baby on the bed, whereupon I commence delving into his pockets and handing him the armfuls I've gathered. He obligingly takes them from me and puts them in the pockets of his new, clean pants and shirt. "Thanks, pal."

Oh man, it was worth it just to get these herbs. They seem to ease all my pains. In the fresh fabric, they smell more intoxicating than ever, taunting me, tempting me. I close my eyes and inhale the scent, losing myself in its world for a moment, opening my eyes to find my friend touching the baby's hand with a stray stalk. "Hey there."

I roll my eyes. "Ah, Linguini, d'you expect him to play with it? He's not a kitten." But the joke's on me; the kid's hand reaches for it, bats it. Huh. Well, he has an appreciation for _fines herbes_, at least. Come to think of it, he's Colette's son, Gusteau's grandkid – who knows, we may have a chef in the family yet!

The little guy is asleep on the bed next to me by the time Colette finally emerges from the bathroom, swathed in an enormous bathrobe. There's an acrid, metallic smell accompanying her, and I should know what it is, but her next words distract me. "I had a great idea in the shower. Listen, _mon Chef._ What do you think of René-Antoine for a name, Alfredo?"

His head jerks up. They've discussed names endlessly, but hadn't reached a final selection yet. I know Linguini had wanted to name her after his mother if it was a girl, but what with the competition and being shot at and one thing and another, baby names were kind of the last thing on their minds.

"Uh, sure, if you say so," he stammers, then nods again, rolling it around in his brain, seeming to like it. "Yeah," he says finally. "The middle name's a nice idea. Ego'll be pleased."

The mention of Ego makes me slightly uneasy, like there's something I've forgotten to do, but my muddled brain can't quite figure out why. I dismiss the concern for later. We'll be seeing him soon enough. And that smell…

Colette towels her hair dry, her voice muffled under the white terrycloth, with a sharpness as though Linguini's missing something. "You _do_ know what the female form of René is, don't you?"

"Uh, well, I'm not so good with French names..."

"Renée." She waits for recognition, but is disappointed.

He stares blankly. "Like the American actress?"

"You know what it means?"

"Um..."

She rolls her eyes. "It means reborn, right?" She waits for the nod. "And 'reborn' in Italian is..."

Linguini sits very still as realization hits. She waits for him to finish her sentence, but he can't. Finally she has to say it for him.

"...Renata."

I can't help smiling as I see his eyes fill. He opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly it hits me what that smell is, as Colette looks at us. "Uh… _Copains_," she says, voice faint, "I think there might be a minor… problem…"

She slowly crumples to the ground, a bloodstain spreading over the back of her pristine white bathrobe.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 19:00 PM

The hour-long wait outside emergency surgery, interrupted by a phone call from the Mayor, seems like forever. I think he uses his pull a bit, because Alfredo and I finally manage to get in to see Colette. As we make our way into Urgences, we hear her before we can see her. "…and I'm leaving right now! Do you hear me?!"

I think the whole street can hear her voice, interspersed now with the hard tenor voice of the doctor on duty, who might not uncharitably be described as pitching a hissy. "I hear someone with a death-wish!"

"This competition has some of the best chefs in the world! Do you have any idea how important it is to me?"

"More important than your life?"

"Ah, my life's not at stake! You've got the 'fragile woman' syndrome!"

"You're crazy…" the voices come closer as we walk through the curtained alcoves, looking for the right one, "absolutely crazy! do I look like a vet?"

"I wouldn't know!" Colette's voice is weak but still has its edge. "Do you feel like a vet?"

"I'm only asking because you're damned lucky you only gave yourself internal bleeding, not ripped out your uterus like a cow! How could you do that to yourself?!"

Colette snorts. "Of course, typical male argument: Pregnant women should stay at home where they belong!"

The voices are coming from the last alcove on the left; a group of nurses are standing outside, eavesdropping with amusement on their faces. At the last comment, they burst out giggling.

The doctor is still yelling. "Well, at least they shouldn't go jumping out of parachutes!"

"It's not like I had any choice!"

Seeing Linguini, they smile. A kind nurse takes Rene-Antoine off our hands and we eagerly part the curtain.

"Shows how much you know. I'm signing myself out of here and nothing you can say or do will stop me!"

Any fears I might have had for her health are dispelled by the sheer volume of her arguing with the duty surgeon, an imposing figure in a baggy white coat, tall, dark and handsome with big muscles and a ponytail. The broad back moves aside as we approach, to reveal Colette sitting up on the wheeled bed, very pale but with two bright spots of colour in her cheeks as she argues with the doctor.

"You lost a dangerous amount of blood, Madame. There's no way you're getting up out of this bed!" snaps the _médecin_, whose nametag reads "Dr. Bardin".

"This is the event of a lifetime! I can't miss it!"

"You'll surely miss it if you're dead!"

"Colette…" Linguini begins.

"Stay out of this!" she snaps.

But Bardin turns to him. "Look, I don't know if you can talk any sense into your wife," the doc looks him up and down, "maybe not… but anyway, that little parachute stunt gave her an internal hemorrhage. She's damned lucky she didn't rupture anything important. If she goes walking around now she'll end up with a prolapsed uterus!"

Linguini goes deathly white. He obviously knows what it is, but Colette waves a dismissive hand. "What's that, anyway? How bad can it be?"

Hands on hips, the doctor states coldly, "That's when you're walking around minding your own business, and suddenly _floop!_ your womb's hanging out of your vagina like a used condom!"

I gulp, but Colette's having none of it. "Oh stop exaggerating!" she snaps. "I should have expected that a man wouldn't understand!" Dr. Bardin tries to protest, but she just turns to Linguini. "Where's Rene?"

"A nurse has him, just outside. Colette…"

"Let me handle this, cheri." She turns back to the representative of medical authority. "So why can't I get up and walk out of this hospital, again?"

"You have to stay flat on your back, at least until your stitches dissolve," the doctor says, not unsympathetically, "or you really will get a prolapse."

"Flat on my back! What is this, the Victorian era?"

"No, it's 2008, but I'm the one who's just put forty-seven stitches into you!"

"It's always the same," fumes Colette. "Can't ever escape the stereotypes. Pregnancy, childbirth, fragile, delicate flower…"

"It's not about stereotypes, it's about your health!" the doctor explodes. "I'm not trying to trap you in the home, for crying out loud! I just don't want to have to sew your uterus back up like a split seam on a cheap _corset!_"

Colette fixes the handsome doctor with a glare. "That's enough! My uterus this, my uterus that… What would you know about what women go through?"

The doctor sighs. "I've been trying to tell you… I know a little bit about stereotyping too."

"Since when does a man…"

The broad mouth quirks upward. "Dr. Juliette Bardin, at your service."

Our mouths drop open. Colette stammers, "Tu es une_ femme?_"

The doc shrugs, half-apologetically. "Hey, I like bodybuilding. What can I say?"

Our nutty friend picks up her jaw, closes her mouth, then breaks into a smile. "Well, _that's_ different!"

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 21:00 PM

We were lucky that time. It didn't turn out to be as bad as I feared. Once Colette found out Bardin was a woman, they got along much better, and with some nudging by the Mayor, they agreed to take her on a gurney so she could attend the competition. Colette, that is, not the doc. She gives her a list of medications as long as your arm, although I can't shake the feeling that there should be something natural that can help her instead of all these chemicals…

The hospital's equipped with an airlift, though we don't really need one. Arrangements are made in a blur – it's nice to be important, I must admit. Obstacles are erased from your path, things run smoothly, and everything seems to be arranged for your convenience. They arrange for us to spend the night on a cot in Colette's room, and get airlifted to Genovia for the competition early tomorrow morning.

The end of a ver-ry long day, I think as I snuggle down next Linguini's head on the crisp, white pillow, filled with a smell of disinfectant that makes my eyes burn. Burn so badly that I can't sleep. I can't afford this—my nose can't be inflamed tomorrow. Grumbling, I slide down Linguini's side until I come to the pocket with the herbs. Climbing onto his body, I gently slide into a pocket. Surrounded by fresh, clean fabric that insulates me from the chemical odors, perfumed with the herbs that have suffused Linguini's clothing, I finally settle into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Tuesday, October 16, 21:00 PM

Pierre groans as the flight controller tells him of the latest development; that the party he awaits will not be coming to the airport at all that night, that they will be airlifted directly to the site. _Oh no, not again._ "Can't I be the pilot?"

_"Je __suis __désolée, Monsieur."_ The voice on the radio is genuinely apologetic. "The medical airlift is going to take them directly to the competition site."

Pierre looks at the little rat beside him, the soft snores of Anton in the rear of the plane in counterpoint to the tinny amplifier. "You're sure it is them?"

_"Oh oui."_ She waits a beat. "Well, reasonably sure."

"What do you mean, _reasonably sure?"_

The lady's hesitant voice says, "Well, I have not seen them with my own eyes, you see, I suppose there is always a chance that I might be wrong as I was before…"

"Forget it." Pierre shrugs. Just get Anton to the competition site, and then he can either see them, or, well, or not. No false hope, no potentially heart-stopping shocks. One more push, that's all it'll take… "Is it okay with you if we spend the night in the plane?" he whispers to the rat.

The tiny animal nods. "_Bon_. Okay. We'll let him sleep in the plane till dawn, convince him, take him there, and we can finally see your brother and his friends—or not…"

Looking at the sleeping, defeated figure of his old friend, he thinks this one will be harder than he'd like. He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, his weary voice pitched low for the sensitive ears of the rat.

"I'm getting too old for this."

* * *

Wednesday, October 17, 06:00 AM

"Anton?"

"Hm?"

His eyes snap open and for a split-second between sleep and wakefulness, he still envisions his world as it's supposed to be – the poles in place, the sky not ripped out from above him leaving a gaping black void that nothing and no-one can fill, his heart not torn from his chest and leaving a sick, jagged hole where warmth and feeling used to be. But it's only for a split-second, and then everything returns. The pain is worse than he can remember, and if he were up to thinking, he would conclude that this is his penance for allowing himself to feel again, for not having learnt the first time.

"Are you really going to let them get away with this?"

Hunched over in the narrow space of the plane, Pierre still has to look downwards at Anton's slumped figure, the dark eyes looking up at him slow and sluggish, the feisty spark extinguished. Pierre quashes his sympathy and ploughs on ruthlessly. "Anton, the person who—who did this to them—it's surely another chef, _non?"_

No response. The dead eyes blink, then stray out of the window.

Chilled, Pierre nevertheless forges ahead as though he has received a response. "Anton. Anton. These people were your friends. Will you let them go unavenged?"

The eyes slide back to him briefly, then out of the window again.

"Will you, Anton? Hmm?" Pierre keeps prodding, scared of this semi-catatonic state. "Will you just let their killer slip away? Hm, Anton?"

Anton finally looks up at him bleakly. "There are the police for that."

"And a fat lot of good it did them!" Pierre explodes. "They didn't do a thing until you got them moving! These provincial _policiers_ are hopeless! They don't even know the most likely suspects! _Mais toi_—you might, mightn't you?"

His friend's eyes slip closed. "Pierre, I am rather tired."

_"Non!"_ Pierre's bursting to tell him they're alive, but can he take the chance of getting the broken hopes up, then shattering them again? No—he can't risk it. Steeling himself, he raises his voice. "I never thought you would be so selfish."

That gets a reaction; it's the merest raising of the dull gaze, but it's a step.

Pierre knows he's being cruel, and actually opens his mouth to tell him what he knows. _Knows?_ He doesn't _know_ for sure they're alive—it's hearsay from a radio operator who's been wrong before. Can he trust his friend's fragile sanity to that?

He sighs, knowing he can't, and speaks. "It is selfish to wallow in your grief, letting their killer escape justice."

Anton remains silent.

"Is that what you want? For the murderer to go scot-free?"

The silence stretches on so long that Pierre opens his mouth to say something else, but then Anton speaks, slowly. "Revenge, Pierre?"

"Not revenge." What he's saying is the truth, technically, but it still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "Justice. For your friends."

"Are you proposing I gun the killer down in a dramatic vendetta?" There's the faintest trace of irony in the tone, bitter as gall.

_"Non,"_ Pierre says firmly. "But help justice to be done. Help the police find the man who impersonated an officer and crashed the plane."

"It won't," his friend says in a monotone, "bring them back." The thready bass voice is so infinitely weary Pierre wants to stop, wants to embrace him, but can only forge on.

"No," he agrees, "it won't. But their killer does not deserve to escape justice. For the humans, who will be mourned as heroes, and for—" He pauses as the fat little rat peeks out of his pocket. "For the _petit chef_ you speak of, who will never be known, mourned, remembered. Doesn't he at least deserve that his murderer be handed over to the police?"

The dark eyes rise up, agonized. "Pierre, I—"

The little rat adds his squeak to the speech.

Anton's shoulders slump. "What would you have me do?"

"I bet you know who could have done this, hmm? From your knowledge of the circuit? The most ruthless ones, who'll stop at nothing?"

His friend blinks. "Per…haps."

"Aw, c'mon. You? Who were the worst ones? Who fought the dirtiest?"

Anton's face loses a little of its grey tinge as he remembers, confusedly. "Meriflan was the worst, but he's retired. Skinner wasn't the most decent fighter either, but he's not in it…" He trails off. "I don't remember everyone who will be at the competition." His face crumples. "Stupid, stupid idea…"

Pierre goes on smoothly. "We can go there, look at the list, see whom you remember who would do something like this…"

"Go where?"

"To the competition. You can…"

"Never."

Pierre groans. It was the reaction he expected, but he doesn't show it. "Are you going to start that again?"

"I cannot go. Don't ask me to."

"Anton…"

The rat squeaks.

The critic looks desperately up at him. "I cannot face crowds of people! I…"

_"Ecoute!"_ Pierre intones, at the end of his patience. "I'm aware you don't want to confront anyone. I'm aware that you just want to crawl into a hole for the rest of your life and never come out again. But I'm saying, do this for your friends You owe it to them. And…" if it turns out not to be them, if they really have been killed, "…you'll have the rest of your life afterwards to mourn."

Anton looks dully out of the window. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty. They start at nine. We can get there if we move it."

Anton slumps back in his seat, then sits bolt upright. "Amarus!"

"Hm?"

Still grieving, still half-dead, he seems to be running on adrenaline as his unnaturally bright eyes bore into Pierre's. "Of course. Mors Amarus, Genovian royal chef. Dirtiest fighter I've ever known. Bitter little fellow, suspected of doing away with two of his rivals, never anything proved." The spark fades as quickly as it burned. "It doesn't do to accuse people without proof…"

"…but it won't do any harm to confront him and see what he says," finishes Pierre decisively.

Gripping the armrests, Anton moves to strap himself in, a certain dignity in his grief. "Let us go."


End file.
